House Boys
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: Wilson’s worried about his best friend’s recent behavior, so he decides to check on him, but when they get back to House's apartment they find something Jimmy never expected. Slash, mentions of child abuse, AU, OOC, and I changed the time line a little.
1. Good Day

House Boys: Wilson's worried about his best friend's recent behavior, so he decides to check on him

House Boys: Wilson's worried about his best friend's recent behavior, so he decides to check on him. So let's see, alternate universe, out of character, and I played with the time span a little, oh yeah, and House has a kid...

"Good day doesn't have to be a Friday  
Doesn't need to be your birthday  
The next one then you won't survive  
Sing along hold my life  
A good day is any day that you're alive," Paul Westerberg

When House limped out of the baby store, I couldn't help but worry about him. Something had been off for the last couple of weeks, and I knew his father's death had hit him harder than he seemed willing to admit. So, I smiled at Lisa, and she gave me a look as if to say, _go ahead, be with him._ I stepped outside, looking for his bike, or car, only to discover the guy, a few feet away, leaning on his cane, cell phone pressed to his ear.

"I'm on my way home; don't…no you can't have the leftover pizza in the refrigerator…I know…Yeah, well, you can't live on nothing but Pizza, believe me, I tried…Okay, I'll pick it up on my way home…About half an hour. I had to run an errand….No, I'm not….did you finish your--hang on a sec. Some weirdo's bothering me…no it's fine. I know him…okay, I'll see you then…yeah, me too…bye." Greg hung up, pocketing his cell. "And here I thought it was rude to listen in on other people's phone calls," he said, turning around to face me.

"Who were you talking to?" I asked, fully prepared for him to blow it off as a joke, or completely ignore the question, and steadied myself for a battle. Instead, he just sighed, and pointed to my car.

"You can come back to my apartment, but we have to stop off for chicken before we go back to my apartment," he told me, climbing into the front passenger seat. "I took a cab here." At the drive through he ordered nearly twice as much as usual, murmuring something about a human garbage disposal to the guy at the window.

"What's with all the secrecy?" I asked, even though the man had been unusually quiet, and I realized that—knowing him the way I did—I wouldn't actually get a clear answer on this.

"It's hard to explain, and even if I could, you would never believe me." He expressed this quietly, staring out the window, and then felt compelled to add, "It's not a hooker…at my apartment."

"Well, no kidding," I chuckled. "Who buys food for a prostitute, let alone, leaves them alone in their apartment, with all their stuff? Are you alright?" I asked, patting his knee cautiously.

"Yeah, you're just never gonna believe this." That was all he world say. When Greg opened the front door, and we stepped inside, I heard the TV—cartoons—I realized that I hadn't been in House's apartment for almost four months, and part of me believed that he may have lost it. I half expected to find the place empty, his voice speaking to itself on the answering machine, along with women's clothing, and a bloody knife poorly hidden in the bedroom closet. There were a few other possibilities, in the back of my mind, but what I did see was the only thing I had never considered. Sitting on the sofa, and dressed in jeans, a dinosaur t-shirt, and light up sneakers, was an eight year-old boy, with soulful, blue eyes, and light brown hair.

"Hey," he said, nodding at the kid as though he were an ordinary roommate.

"What are you…babysitting?" I asked, my mind already throwing out the most obvious possibility. No way could he have hidden a kid from the world for this long. They both laughed, and the physical similarities between their faces, and sort of in their bodies, were just flooring.

"Yeah," the boy said, regaining his composure faster than Greg did, and smiling at me. "He's gonna be babysitting for the next thirteen years." I knew instantly that this comment was not born out of the child's mind. He was repeating something he'd already heard someone else say.

"Go set the table," Greg said, mostly—I thought—to get him out of the room. I watched the little one try and stare at him defiantly for a moment, knowing like I did that an explanation was coming. "Don't worry, I'm just gonna tell Jimmy how the stork dropped you off on my doorstep in May." The kid failed to suppress a smile, and walked off, little red lights flashing under his feet.

"You remember that chick I went out with right before Stacy?" I nodded, giving House room to tell his story. "Turns out she was about two—well almost two months pregnant when we broke up, and Laura never said anything. Don't really blame here. I wouldn't chose me as a parent, why would anybody else? But then, I got a call from her—the day of the bus accident, which is—probably the reason you didn't know about this sooner. Maybe if I'd handled it better," he paused; lips pulled tight, chest heaving. "Would it make me seem more normal if I acted like that? Anyway, she was sick, and didn't have anybody else. It was either me, or foster care, just until she got better." He craned his neck to make sure the boy was out of earshot. "He knows she—but um…he's been seeing somebody since the funeral, and…talking to this—and he's doing…I think he's okay, all things considered."

"Are you sure he's yours?" was what I wanted to ask. Greg had always been sort of obsessive when it came to birth control. Instead, I pussyfooted around the question. "Are you sure—have you—did you do a—have you checked to be sure that—um what I wanna know is. Is he…?"

"Yep, we're even the same blood type, which is sort of cool actually. He knows—not that I actually told him, or even sort of told him. Smart kid," he explained. "Dave goes to bed at 9:00. Can you wait 'til then to psychoanalyze _me_?" he asked, those neon blue orbs sad and almost desperate. I nodded, carrying the chicken to the kitchen, and smiling when I saw a pile f books sitting there, fourth or fifth grade math and science, social studies, and an English workbook. "I'm gonna move these while we eat, so that I don't get grease all over them. "David, this is my best friend James Wilson—you've heard me talk about him before, right?"

"He's the one who will marry anything with a pulse?" Greg smiled, and then quickly tried to make himself look serious.

"We talked about this. Just because I say something, doesn't make it acceptable to repeat. I try a lot harder around you than most of the idiots I run into, since you're pretty smart, and relatively cool for age, but you know that I mess up sometimes. So, just—you have to be more careful."

"Sorry, Dad. I was pretty sure that one wasn't okay, but you said that you guys tease each other a lot because guys do that sometimes," the boy explained, picking up a drum stick, and taking a bite, attempting to look innocent.

"You do your homework?"

"Most of it, but I need you to help with my math. Susan couldn't do it."

"Babysitter," House whispered to me, "speaking of which, where the he—ck is she?"

"She only left like a minute before you got here. She saw you guys parking, and said she was gonna be late for her night school class." I watched the two of them throughout dinner, laughing at each other's jokes, trying to pawn their vegetables off on each other, and mostly behaving like brothers all night. However, when the kid was getting ready for bed, I witnessed one of the most amazing things House had ever done in front of me.

He knelt down beside David, hugging him tightly, and then said, "your charge the batteries on your walkie talkie?" The little boy nodded. "If you have one of those dreams again, just push that little button and I'll be right there. Suddenly the kid clung onto him, and Greg didn't push away. Instead, he kissed the kid's forehead, and patted him on the back gently. "You want me to hang out in here 'till you fall asleep?" David nodded, looking up at his father with heavy-lidded eyes. Then he climbed into bed, and the older man sat down, quietly watching him until the boy was fast asleep.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Later, the two of us sat on the couch, talking quietly, although I hardly had his complete attention. The guy kept looking back at the bedroom, with its open door. "He keeps having these nightmares where we're out someplace, and I disappear, or lose him and never come back. His therapist said eh should go over to my room, see that I'm there, and go back to bed on his own. But it wasn't helping; he likes to talk when he's freaked out, so I got us a pair of walkie talkies, and he just pushes a button, we talk for a few minutes, and he goes back to sleep." He paused. "Yeah, I know, I've become one of those annoying idiots who spends all his time talking about his kid."

"You gave him your bedroom."

"I've only got one, and David's not handling change too well right now, and not to mention that I've lived here almost my entire adult life, and I usually pass out on the couch anyway, although now it's because of exhaustion, you'd be amazed how little time a parent has to drink during the day."

"He's a bright kid, Hell, he's more than bright. That's probably the smartest kid I have ever met," I started to explain wit the ultimate intent of getting hi to admit to what I already knew, but that Greg probably wouldn't face on his own.

"So what? He's got amazing genes, which makes it easier for me to relate to him, 'cuz I don't do so good with idiots, or even with kids—since they're usually not all that smart either."

"He looks just like you—a younger you, but still."

"That's probably because he's my son." I shot him a look. "Oh come on, Jimmy. There's nothing…can you imagine what the world would be like if there was a normal, happy, well-adjusted person, with my intelligence in it? He could be president, and bring about world peace, or solve poverty and hunger, end global warming, cure cancer!"

"Well you've sure got some high expectations for the kid, don't you?"

"I'm not gonna make him do anything he doesn't want to, unless I hafta, and those are pretty much limited to eating good food, behaving—sort of—finishing high school, and getting all his shots."

"And if there's a happy you in the world, then maybe you can be happy in the world one day too."

"I'm not hurting him," he said angrily, but still quiet. "I'm trying to give him the best life possible. You know what my childhood was like. What's wrong with me trying to protect my son from people like the jackass who called himself my father?" he asked, close to tears. I wrapped my arms around him, and that was when Greg started to cry. "I'm not hurting him!"

"No, you're not," I whispered. "You're doing a great job. There's nothing wrong with the way you want to take care of him. I hope it will make you happy. You've had more than enough pain for one life time." Greg nodded, straightening himself out, and trying to look strong. "He's a great kid, and you are a great dad."

"I know," he said, defensively. "I've been taking care of David for five minutes, and I'm already doing a better job than—than—I'm okay, really, I am. I'm fine."

"You should tell Cuddy. She wants a baby more than anything in the world," I suggested. "She might even let you leave work early, take off when he's sick—you know, kids get sick…she could even help, and kids need female—influences."

"And Cuddy comes into the picture, where exactly? She's more of a dude than I am," he chuckled. "Besides she wants a pink, little baby that sort of looks like her so she can act like it's actually hers. Last thing the woman needs is mini-me running around the hospital, causing trouble." I smiled, and he did too. I kissed him softly, on the forehead, cheeks, and then lips.

"Do you want me to go close the door so we don't wake him up?" I asked, after about fifteen minutes of making out, unsure as to how far he'd let thins continue.

"No way, kid freaked out his first night here, really, really bad. I slept in the chair next to his bed for two weeks. He's barely okay with the setup we have now, which is weird because I don't do so well when it comes to sleeping either." _You both had traumatic childhoods_, I thought, but kept to myself for obvious reasons. I smiled weakly.

"If I promise to be quiet, can I—that is, would you mind if I stayed the night? Unless, you think it would be bad for David, in which case I understand if you ask me to leave." House laughed then playfully punched me in the arm, and I pretended that it hurt. "Why do you like me so much? You paid somebody spy on me because I tried to stay away from you."

"I like you, because you're exactly the same person you were the night we met. Well, you got less hair, but…other than that—change scares me a little too. Look, don't tell anyone at the hospital I'm a parent. Probably get fired if they realize I'm getting soft in my old age."

"Oh please, you're the same guy you were when we met. You told an eight-year-old, your eight-year-old, that I'd marry anything with a pulse!"

"Because you will, and he's not a normal eight-year-old. Kid goes to a gifted school, takes junior high level math, and can talk his 33-year-old babysitter into letting him do whatever he wants. Of course, she's sort of an idiot to begin with, but it's still impressive."

"So what did you guys do all summer?" I asked, intentionally setting myself up for some sort of a joke, to lighten the mood.

"Normal parent and kid shit. We went to the shore. Kid actually got into the water at the freaking Jersey shore," he laughed. "Went to the amusement park, and ate garbage and road roller coasters 'till we barfed. Well, I barfed. He's got a cast iron stomach. We went finishing, sort of. We had to sit on the bank, 'cuz I can't swim, which means we can't go out in a boat, but he liked it anyway. Um—we watched bad summer blockbusters, and the park—you have no idea how obnoxious most parents are—went to the library a lot. He joined their kid's reading club. They gave out a prize for every hour of reading you do, and he finished the whole sheet, I think it was about ten or twelve hours, in a week, but the refused to give him the stupid prizes. Those morons claimed he cheated. So I went out, and got him a Gameboy."

"Because he didn't cheat," I finished.

"Well, yeah, exactly," he explained. "Fair is fair, even if the idiots around you don't see it that way."

"How did you explain—is that what you told him?"

"He's eight, and his mother just died. Nothing I can say will ever make him think that life is fair. Which it isn't, but I can keep it from sucking too bad, which is what parents are supposed to do, right?"

"You made the right decision," I told him honestly, kissing his face again. "And you are a very good man, a very good doctor, a very good father, and I love you so much. I love you more than anything in the whole world."

"Are you trying to cheer me up by telling me stupid stuff I already know, to make me sleep with you?" he asked, in that annoying voice, rolling his eyes, and smiling a little. "I don't wanna wake him up…I, of course I want to, you know, but the kid's sort of a light sleeper, and no eight-year-old should ever have to see you naked." He laughed. "Nobody should have to see it, but it's not really an option now is it?" I smiled, and snuggled, close to him on the sofa.

"So, can I stay here tonight?" I asked, realizing that he had never actually answered my question. House shrugged, looking back at the bedroom, cautiously. "He's okay, I'm sure. If he hasn't had the nightmare yet, maybe it won't happen." He sighed.

"Your statement is really stupid, Jimmy. They usually start around midnight, then he's up and down for an hour or so, though he doesn't always need to talk. I hear him tossing and turning, I think it's been worse the last week-ish. Maybe he's picking up on my, whatever."

"I think you could be the most secure, stable, happy, grown-up, functioning person on the planet, and he'd still be having nightmares. I'm an adult, a healthy adult, and I'm still having nightmares about Amber."

"I get that, but if you—if I wasn't. If somebody else was taking care of the kid, really taking care of him, being a real parent, then maybe, he might do a little better," House admitted, looking away, and sighing, tiredly.

"Except that you actually know what he's feeling. You help him a lot. I saw the way he reacted when you told him everything was okay and that you weren't going anywhere. That kid loves you, and yeah, maybe he would have been better off—and I don't actually believe this but you won't feel okay again until I say it, so I have to tell you—before you guys ever met, but you and I both know that you can't let him go now."

"I'm not talking about letting him go," he snapped. "I don't know what I'd do if—I don't know what I'm saying, just worried about him. I don't want my kid to hurt, I don't want his life to suck and if something I'm doing hurts him, then. Then—see this is exactly why I shouldn't be allowed near kids. I'm screwed up." I didn't know what to say there. I couldn't tell him, '' no you're not,' or 'everyone's screwed up a little,' because one was a little, and the other one didn't help him any. A few minutes went by, while we both lay there, not speaking, not moving, just considering what we'd been talking about. Then, there was a soft crackling sound coming from the walkie talkie.

"Dad?" David's voice called out terrified, and lost. "Are you there? Over."

"I told you, don't hafta say over," Greg teased, gently, "but yeah, I'm still here, you're okay. Wanna tell me about this one?"

"We were at the movies and we went into the theater. You sat down next to me at first, but then the lights went off and I said I wanted a soda. So, you went off to get it, but you never came back. After a while I was really scared, so I went looking for you, in the lobby, but you weren't out there. I looked everywhere, but it was dark, and there were a lot of people around, but I still couldn't find you anywhere. I was all alone and scared, and then—then I woke up."

"Well, that's why I always make sure we get our snacks _before_ we go into the theater," Greg said, jokingly. They both laughed, and I watched him run his hand through his hair. "It's okay. I'm here, and I'm gonna stay with you for a good, long time. I'm not going to leave you in the movie theater or anywhere else, I promise."

"I know that in my mind, it makes sense, but…I know you don't wanna leave, but neither did my mom," the kid explained. House sighed. He understood that fear, that irrational terror, but he didn't know how to make it better. "Thanks for talking to me. It helps, hearing your voice—makes me know that you really are there. If I just look at you, and you're asleep, I'm not so sure, but..."

"Yeah, I—I've noticed. Look, I know things sort of suck right now, but it is going to get better. You are going to feel better. Just takes a while."

"How long did it take for you?" _Smart kid,_ I thought, _maybe he really does pick up on his father's emotions, and that makes him feel even more scared._

"It never happened for me," he admitted, "but I didn't have—my mom is a wonderful woman, and she loves me, she always loved and tried to take the best care of me that she could, but my—father, wasn't very nice."

"Not even to you?" the boy's voice asked, between yawns. I think it's tough for kids to understand that stuff unless they've experienced it first hand.

"Especially not to me…it's late, and I think you've got school in the morning. We will talk about this, sometime, but you need to go back to sleep. I can come and sit in the chair for a while, if you need me to." House pushed himself into a sitting position, rubbing his leg softly, preparing to stand up.

"No, I don't think I'm scared anymore, and I am really tired." This time I couldn't actually hear him yawn, but the silence between his words, and the odd sound of something over the walkie talkie. "Goodnight, Dad." Greg smiled a little, putting it down, and waited a minute, before allowing himself to relax and lay back down.

"I think he's doing better. First couple of times we did this—first couple of weeks actually, it took hours to calm him down, and I always had to get up and go in there, Maybe he's stronger than I thought, Maybe he's stronger than I am." He closed is eyes, laying his head on the pillow, closing his eyes. The lights were on, in the hall, and the den, but nowhere else. He also had the TV on—muted—and I knew from the previous nights I that I had spent in the apartment that House rarely slept in complete darkness.

"I think he's doing really well too, although, I just met the guy today. Mind if I turn the lights off?" I asked, touching his face again, and wrapping the blankets around his body.

"He likes to have the one in the hall way on, he just—I dunno…whatever helps, you know?" I stood up, turned off the lights near the sofa, leaving the television on, and then lay down next to him. The two of us curled up on the couch together, and fell asleep.

xXxXxXxXxXxXx

I woke up the next morning, with skinny, stubby, little fingers poking into my arm. When I opened my eyes, David was standing in front of the couch, in a set of racecar pajamas, staring up at me, an action figure, hanging limply at his left side. Greg had already gotten up, and I could smell bacon and pancakes cooking.

"Are you gonna marry my dad next?" he asked, his blue eyes wide, and intrigued.

"Don't answer that," House called out to me from the kitchen. "I already told you—"

"I know what you said," the kid interrupted, "but sometimes when you ask two grownups the same question, you get different answers." According to the clock by the TV, it was 7:23 AM.

"Yeah, well not on this one. Oh, and Jimmy, I was wrong. There's some sort of teacher meeting or something, so we don't have school today. So, uh—I was thinking we should do something?"

"Does _we_ include me?" I asked the little boy. He shrugged his shoulders, _I dunno._ "I'm gonna go ask your dad, okay?" That's about the time when I realized that I smelled real food, that I hadn't made, in Gregory House's apartment. "Is he cooking?"

"Sort of. He uses the mix that comes in a box, and heats up frozen bacon in the microwave. My mom said that it was cheating to cook that way, but he tried to make real bacon once, and set it on fire, a little." _That sounds more like it, _I thought. "It's okay though, you can't tell the difference from tasting it." A voice from the kitchen called and told us that it was time to eat.

"So, does _we _include me?" I asked, upon sitting down at the table. Greg looked to his son—_boy is that going to take a while to get used to—_to make sure it was alright with him. The little House nodded.

"Sure, he seems nice enough, but I wanna know something. You talk about him a lot. I know he's your best friend, but I never met him before yesterday. How come?" I wasn't sure how to respond.

"Wilson had a difficult summer too. I guess, we've all been having a tough time lately," he said, bring us the food. David took in this information, processed it, and decided that it wasn't enough. Greg's eyes seemed to ask, _is this okay?_ I nodded. "He lost somebody too…his girlfriend."

"Oh, but I thought that you guys were—you both slept on the couch, right?" he asked, and I couldn't help but smile a little. "You're just gonna say it's complicated, right?" he asked. "Maybe we should all be a family," the boy announced. "Or at least we should be together all the time. I know that you guys like each other a lot, and _you _hardly like anybody, Dad. He can help us."

"So Jimmy would be like a—step mother sort of character?"

"You're just making fun of him because you don't wanna be the first person to say you like my idea." Imagining what it would be like to actually live with the House boys was a little scary and a little funny, but for the most part, the kid had a point. Ever since we'd met, Greg and I had been close. We were the only constant in each other's lives. He needed me. I needed him, and the kid needed both of us. It was a brilliant idea. So we weren't a typical family; who the Hell is? If I could make them happy—if I could make House happy—well that was all I ever really wanted anyway. I said I was in, and Greg said, sure fine, whatever, but we all know he wanted this as much as the rest of us. "We don't hafta move, do we?" David asked, starting to sound slightly nervous.

"I'm sure we can come up with something, a way to make the den more like a bedroom, like a pullout, or a rollaway for us to sleep on. You can't sleep on the sofa, and he and I can't share it forever. But no, I don't think so. We can probably stay here, unless a time comes when we're all ready to leave this place."

We went to bowling that afternoon, which was actually sort of cute. Greg got them to put the bumpers up because the kid had never done it before, and then stood next to him, demonstrating empty handed, but David's aim was off, and so when he threw the ball it slammed into the left rail, bounced, rolling forward, across to the right, and then to the left, and then right, left, right, left, and right again, and finally, hit the pins with full force, knocking over more than half of them.

"Here let's try something else. We're probably gonna get kicked out of here, if we keep doing that. Roll it forward, with both hands. There you go. Hey, look at that, you got a spare!"

"I'm sorry, about the bouncing thing," he offered, doe-eyed, and slightly scared.

"It was an accident; I'll probably do the same thing a couple of times." After a couple of games, we went into the arcade and played videogames for a few hours, they even calculated, and figured out the best way to win a stuffed animal from that thing with giant claw. That night, I cooked dinner, pasta, with garlic bread, and a caprese salad for everyone. The House boys ate like a couple of starving animals, and then sat up reading until 9:15. For the first time since—Greg said—his mother's death, David slept through the night, and us grownups didn't do too bad either. _Maybe we can make this work, _I thought. The next morning, I woke up and saw my guys half asleep in front of Saturday morning cartoons, eating cereal, trying to keep from waking me up. I never thought my life would turn out like this, but I was happy, and they were…


	2. Sick As A

AN: hey guys sorry about this some how I selected the wrong document (that's what I get for not clearing out my old ones from the docX manager) and put up the first chapter to Leaving New Jersey.

"You got my heart and soul forever,

I don't wear a cap but you're my feather.

I always knew that I was right for you (right for you)

Kiss the ground under your feet;

I would die for you (die for you),

but every time I try and write a song for you,

it all turns out so I can't fit it to the tune," Graeme Downes.

About a day after Cuddy lost the baby, Greg and I woke up in the middle of the night. We had no idea why; House lay beside me, eyes open and adjusting to the darkness, and staring at me oddly for a minute.

"Did you say something?" he asked, yawning and trying to burry his face in his pillow. I touched his arm gently, pulling the covers up around our shoulders, and shook my head. "If it wasn't you, then..." He bolted up into a sitting position, and turning to get off the bed.

"I'll get it," I offered. "He's gotten used to me; I can—if he needs somebody to go in there. You should rest, and not—it's probably nothing, but your leg does hurt, that's why you aren't already on your feet, running towards the bedroom."

"It always hurts," he said defensively, "but yeah; in the middle of the—if I can sleep through the night it isn't so bad, but when I wake up—I dunno. It's some weird thing…" That's when it happened again, the thing that had woken us up.

"Dad," a small, pathetic voice called out from somewhere in the apartment. The boy wasn't in his room, I knew that much, because he hadn't used the walkie-talkie. Something was wrong, I knew it.

"I gotta go," House explained, standing up weakly, grabbing his cane, and stiffly heading towards the bathroom. I jumped up, and raced to his side, offering him my arm so he could lean against me. It took a minute, but we got there, and found the boy on his hands and knees, next to the toilet.

"I threw up," David groaned, lifting his head up from the grey tiles. "I think it all went into the bowl." Then he put his head on the floor. Greg bent down, touching the kid's hair, and face softly.

"It's alright," he explained. "Wilson, we've got some Pepto-Bismol in the cabinet. Will you grab it for me?" He wrapped his arms around the kid. "It's okay, believe me, I know; I've done a lot of throwing up in there. It's built pretty solid….and I think I took that joke too far, because you're both looking at me like I'm insane. Here, drink this," he said, handing the little cup of pink goop to his son. "You wanna stay in here until that stuff kicks in, or should we try and get you back to your room?" I sat down next to them, pressing my hand to David's forehead, while touching the other to my own face.

"It feels like he might have a little bit of a fever, probably low-grade, under a hundred. My guess is he's got the stomach flu. Are any of the kids at your school sick?" I asked.

"Yeah, my friend Jeremy went home this afternoon, right before lunch, but I only started to get a stomachache around bedtime. It wasn't too bad until a little while a go, all of the sudden it was really awful. I ran all the way here and just barely made it." House gave him a concerned look. "I think it's starting to work." He collapsed into his father's arms.

"Do you think you can carry him, Jimmy?" Greg asked. "I'd do it myself, but….well, you know." I helped him to his feet, picking the boy up as best I could, carefully walking the two of them back to the bedroom.

"I'm gonna go bet a bucket, in case he feels sick again. You're okay for a minute, aren't you, Dave?" He lifted is sick, exhausted head just high enough to nod, and then lay down beside Greg.

"If you need anything else, just let me know, okay. I'll stay here, until the morning, but then, I'm gonna have to go to work." Greg was more worried than I'd ever seen him with the kid.

"Can't you stay home?" the boy pleaded, pressing his face into his shoulder. "Pretty please, Daddy?" _That was manipulative as Hell _I thought_. If the kid wasn't so sick, House'd probably be mad, or proud._

"Wilson, cover for me, okay? Tell Cuddy I broke my leg and had to be shot," he chuckled. "Or that I'm hung over, whichever one you think she's more likely to believe. It's okay," he explained to the boy. "I have to—Does your stomach still hurt?" David nodded his head. "Well, the bad news is, you're gonna feel like crap for a few days, good news is, get to miss school."

"But I like school," David insisted, quietly. Greg sighed, rubbing the little boy's stomach in slow, gentle circles.

"Yeah, I know, but you're really sick. Even if we can control the nausea, and vomiting, what you need, is a couple of days of rest, and lots of fluids. Hmm, I've got an idea, something to take your mind off it."

"What?" he asked, weakly. House smiled, and kissed the top of his son's head. Then he frowned. "Am I okay?" David looked up at his father nervously, sad, tired, and scared too.

"Yep. You've got a little fever, but you're gonna be okay. What if I teach you some stuff? You like science. I'll get one of my medical books, we'll stay away from the gross stuff, definitely steer clear of intestinal track, just in case, but…uh, it'll be cool. When I was nine I had my appendix out, spent a week in the hospital, doctors all said I was the smartest paitent they had ever met…so, they taught me stuff. Most I learned my whole childhood, 'sept when I went to the library and studied on my own. It's fun; you'll be the only kid your age who knows how to perform a tonsillectomy."

"Let's stick with the intellectual," I suggested. "This apartment isn't sterile enough to do a necropsy in, let alone perform something on a living person." They both gave me _the_ look. "Why don't you teach him that gave we play…the one you invented in med school?"

"The game you're down a couple million points on?" Greg asked, looking away from the boy for the first time since he had left the bathroom. "Then again, he's smarter than you are, maybe he will do better. You think you can get to sleep?" The boy shook his head, clutching his gut. "Still hurt?'

"Yeah, well, sort of, not still, it comes and goes, like in waves. I got the stomach flu once in kindergarten, it was like this. I was really sick, really bad, for a week. Tell me about the game?" I ran back to the living room, grabbed a textbook from the shelf, and brought it back to them.

"Open that to any page, pick a disease, study it, memorize the symptoms," Greg told him, and I thought of the first time he told me. I'm pretty sure we were in bed too. "You get five minutes to learn everything. Start by telling me the first symptom on the list and two more from anywhere else. If I get the right answer at any time, I get 10 points. If I don't get it on my first try, you get 15 points. Round two, you give me another symptom; again order doesn't matter, I guess, and so on and so on. For second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth turns you get five more points each, and if you get all the way up to ten symptoms and I still don't have the answer, you get another thirty five points." He had always loved playing this game, probably because it's the only thing in is life he never lost at, the one thing no one could ever beat him with.

"What are the odds of me scoring any points?" the boy asked, but his attention was already peaked. His father sort of shrugged, and looked away. "Have you ever gotten any points?" he asked me.

"No," I admitted, "but—you're a lot smarter than I am, and you think a lot like your dad. I don't, and even if you loose, it's still fun to watch him do that. I once picked Pheochromocytoma, which is—pretty much one of the rarest tumors in the world, and he got it before I even finished my first turn."

"That's because you always go with the types of case I get every week. The common cold has dozens of symptoms, almost all of which are consistent with ten other conditions," House said, and they both smiled at me. "He's not gonna do that, are you, squirt?"

"Nope, and I got one," David explained, chuckling. "You guys are soft of, you guys—I'm ready to go." _He was studying while we were teasing each other._ Greg nodded at him, and looked at the closed book. "I memorized it. Unless you wanna insult Wilson some more, let's go." I watched them stare each other down for a moment. "1. Shortness of breath, 2. coughing, and 3. chest tightness."

"Good one, well I've got it—I'm pretty sure you picked asthma, but—that could also be an allergic reaction. See, this is why _you_ never win, Jimmy. You're either stuck inside the box, or you go so far outside the box that it sounds stupid. Gotta think _around_ the box."

"I don't even know what that means, and I have to work tomorrow, so I'm going back to bed, okay?"

"Just stay for this turn. So you can see how to play to win, and I'm gonna use my first try to say severe allergic reaction." Dave made the sound of a game sow buzzer. "Fifteen points to the sick kid."

"Symptom number four: bronchial tube constriction."

"I already know that it's asthma—we're at fifteen and ten now, right?" David nodded, ands started to look at his book. Greg stood up, and stepped out into the hallway with me. "I might need you to bring home some medical supplies, if he stays really sick. IV tubing, needles, saline; so he doesn't get dehydrated, and maybe something stronger for his stomach."

"I'll call you after General hospital. If you need the stuff—you're gonna know for sure by then, right?" I asked, looking back into the room. "But, most doctors, and mothers, and everyone, recommend bed rest and drinking clear fluids for this one."

"Yeah, but I—he got really sick the last time this happened. His mom had to take him to the ER. I don't want him to...We can't take him to the hospital or else everyone will find out, and be weird to me."

"You wouldn't care how people think of your, or even the way they act. What you're really worried about, is that people will treat him badly, and that he'll be in that much pain." Greg shrugged. "He's not going to need hospitalization, but I will call in the afternoon, to check about the other stuff."

"I'm ready," David's voice called out to his dad again. House turned to go back, and I hugged him, and said, _I love you_, before going back to sleep. When I woke up the next morning, I climbed out of bed, and went to check on my boys before anything else. They were both asleep, cuddled close, the book sprawled open on the floor next to the bed. Greg was on his back, left arm under David, who was on his side, knees bent, his head on his father's chest. I wanted to take a picture, it was so adorable, but I had no idea where the camera was—if we had one—and had about a million things to do before I left for work. Since they had probably been awake for most of the night, so instead of waking them up, I scribbled a quick note on a sheet of paper and placed it on the table beside the bed, under a large, neon orange, model t-rex. Then, I went to work, and pretended like it was just a normal day.

"Where the Hell is House?" Cuddy asked, barging into my office, unannounced. Even though she had make up on, was dressed well, and had fixed her hair, I could tell she'd been crying most of the night.

"He's at home, sick, well hung over."

"Like he's never come to work in that condition," she spat.

"Do you actually want to talk to him right now? Or do you just feel like yelling at somebody. Because I'm pretty good at pretending. I can act like him for a while, then we all get what we want. You can let off steam, Greg can rest, and I can make you both happy."

"Wherever his is, let him know he's got double clinic hours tomorrow." She saw the look on my face. I couldn't say, he might not be back in just one day. "Now I know you're lying."

"Because Greg's at home with the stomach flu, and he doesn't want everyone to know about it." I had to admit, it was a great cover story. "He also wanted to see how long it would take before you asked where he was…'cuz even he knows what an ass he's been."

"Maybe I should stop by his apartment for a minute, just to make sure he's really alright." I leaned back in my chair hands behind my head, and sighed. She touched her face carefully, as if trying to feel if her makeup was running. "You're still not telling me everything!" She was in no shape to visit a sick House, let alone him and David. Plus with his kid throwing up in the next room, God only knows what he might do.

"Fine, go over and visit him, but the poor guy was up all night, and House can't keep anything down. He's cranky. Just ask yourself, do you really want to be tortured?" Technically it wasn't a lie. House _was _sick. I just didn't tell her which one. They were both up all night, tired, and cranky. One of them throwing up, and the other doing anything he could to protect the sick one.

"He's not here, because he spent all of last week making me feel like crap, and he's terrified of what punishment I might dole out." I smiled, weakly, as if admitting to this. "What are you hiding?"

"Do you remember Linda, the woman he dated right before Stacy?" she nodded. I figured the best way to keep her from finding the truth out was to tell it to her. Cuddy would never believe this, and would assume that he was just hung over, or sick, or whatever. "She died, over the summer, and it turns out, she had an eight-year-old son. Think back, they were still dating seven years ago. The kid's sick, and doesn't want to be alone." She almost laughed, but looked away sadly. "The truth is that House is sick, and he doesn't want anyone to see him like that. Leave it alone."

"I will not!" And like that, she was gone. I picked up the phone, and quickly pinched in the number for our apartment. It rang twice—long enough to check caller ID—and Greg answered.

"Last time I checked, 11:40 is _before _General Hospital comes on. It's actually before noon, too. What's wrong?" he asked, sounding more than slightly annoyed. _Hi, how are you? _I thought, and smiled. _Nice to hear from you. What's up? Any of these are appropriate. Why be an ass to me for no reason?_

"I just wanted to warn you, Cuddy was in here. She wanted to know where you were. She wouldn't believe any of my excuses. I figure, it'll take her at least ten minutes, more than enough time to hide David someplace."

"He's—he's got the stomach flu, and his body is acting like it…. Couldn't hide that if I tried. Not to mention the second bed, toys, and his school books. She'll take one step inside, and know instantly. Thanks for the warning, although next time, just keep her away from me," he said with a small, unconvincing laugh.

"If you I want, I can drive over there," I suggested. I wasn't worried about Cuddy discovering David's existence, or about her reaction to it. I knew that the younger of the boys was a bit apprehensive when it came to new people, but for the most part he got over it quickly. My biggest concern what it had been since the day I met the tyke. House was extremely protective of his son, and (come to think of it) all kids. Greg had issues with both of his parents, and everyone knew that, but his distrust—possibly even concern—for kids went much further. He didn't like anyone, but he hated kids a lot less than adults, regular adults less than parents, and bad parents worst of all.

He had a point, last week. Cuddy is a perfectionist, and she sometimes has a short temper. He didn't think she'd make a good mother, and these days he knew what it took to take care of a kid better than any of us. Some of what he did that week, he did because he was insecure, and Cuddy had pretty much become his stepmother. Part of him couldn't stand the idea that he'd no longer be the center of attention, but another part, perhaps just as significant, was worried about that baby. He knew what it was like to be ignored, yelled at, pushed too hard (and then being told he was worthless if he failed) hit, even worse, and he would do anything to keep that from happening to another child, even if it meant sterilizing the entire human population. I'm not sure what I was afraid of, with her, but something about the situation had me worried about Greg. I heard him breathing deeply, as if he were considering my offer, unsure of how to answer.

"In case you forgot, David's the little kid, and I'm the grownup. I don't need a babysitter," he replied smugly. _He's covering,_ I thought. He didn't want me to know that he was also unhappy with the circumstances.

"I'll be right over."

"I gotta go someone's at the door." I probably got there twice as fast as Cuddy had, so I know pretty much exactly what happened. He answered the door, barefoot, and in his pajamas, looking like he ad gotten about three hours of sleep the night before. Cuddy pushed her way into the apartment, angrily, covering her emotional pain by acting pissed. I think she thought that yelling at House would make her feel better.

"Did you actually think you could just pretend to be sick, and I'd forget about how much of a jackass you've been the last couple of days?" she ragged.

"I don't think I was that much worse than usual, and keep your voice down; he's asleep." He did have a point. Greg was always rude, especially to her, and while it seemed more cruel this week; he was really just trying to protect the baby. Cuddy eyed him suspiciously.

"Who, your stupid rat? I'm not going to keep my voice down so that _thing_ can get a late morning nap!" Greg grimaced, looking towards the bedroom door, as if expecting David to walk out, rubbing his eyes. "And why is there a bed in the living room?"

"Steve is—I don't know, and I will show you who's a sleep, but only if you stop yelling, please?" He started towards the bedroom, but Cuddy shot him a dirty look. "Fine, I'll stay here. You can go and then come back and tell me whatever was so important it couldn't be done over the phone." That's about when I arrived. She was gone less than a minute, and then came back, wide-eyed, mouth agape.

"This is a joke, right, your sick idea of a practical joke, or a prank, you know—make fun of me in the most horrible and humiliating way possible?" House shook his head. "How the Hell did you get a kid?"

"Well, when two people really love each other," he started, but she shot him another look. We both did. "Linda never told me about him until this summer. I was concerned, ran a DNA test. Definitely mine," he explained. "I didn't want anyone to know about him. Dunno, people probably think I've gone soft or something."

"You can relax, everything's fine here. It's like I said in the office. He's just got the stomach flu," I tried to tell her.

"So you actually have a child?"

"You wanna be his mom? When he wakes up in twenty minutes and starts puking again, you can go clean it up. Just don't give him any more Pepto. It's not working, and pink barf is really nasty."

"He's _your _son; you take care of it," she said, half disgusted, half trying to hide a smile. This is around the time David appeared. Knowing him, the kid had probably woken up a while back, and had been spying on s for most of the discussion. "Hi," she said, to him nervously. David looked to his father, and then to me. _What's going on here_?

"David, this is my boss, Dr. Lisa Cuddy," House said, silently hoping that the kid would say something funny, that would get rid of her.

"Hello,"" he said, shaking her hand. "Nice to meet you." Cuddy stared at him strangely. "Sorry I'm in my pajamas, but my dad said, since I'm sick, I can just stay in bed all day…"

"He's not usually like this," I told her. "When I first met David, he asked, _is this the guy who will marry anything with a pulse?"_ Lisa smiled.

"He's smart too. Remember that game I made up when I was in medical school? The one nobody can ever win, or even score any points at? He's good at it. Kid actually got all the way through ten rounds, and I still didn't answer it," he boasted.

"Well, he's sick. Your probably let him win," she taunted.

"Yeah—that sounds just like me. I don't cheat—well at least not at this game. This is my job. Can you imagine what would happen if the world found out I was out diagnosed by an eight-year-old?"

"I only won because I picked a really, really, good disease, and I only used one of the symptoms from the beginning of the list, and the rest were in random order," David said, trying to sound as if his accomplishment wasn't so great. He paused, looking at me, and then at Greg. "Do you think I'm gonna be okay by Friday?"

"I don't know, why?" House questioned. Even Cuddy knew the answer to this one. She smiled. He smiled. I smiled. "Oh, right, Halloween, um—well, this could last anywhere from one to ten days, so I guess we're going to hafta see. If you feel up to it, we can go trick or treating around here, and save the candy until you're all better. That sound okay to you, Dr. Cuddy?" Greg asked, making the sweet, innocent, little boy face.

"So he's—really…you have a kid?" she asked, still in shock. The House boys both laughed, and David sat down on the sofa. I reached out to take her hand gently. For most of this I had just been observing, only stepping in when absolutely necessary, my presence keeping Greg from doing anything really mean.

"You keep on asking me that, like you think I might change my answer or something. Yes, I really have a kid, and yes he is really sick. It's—nothing, stomach flu. Kid can't stop throwing up, so up—gonna need couple of days off to take care of him. The rest of the week, and maybe…if I get a case, just tell Wilson and we can swap places." I sat down next to the kid, and whispered quickly to him, that it was okay.

"I'm feeling a little better now," David told both of them, but he still looked pretty miserable. His skin was a little green, and pale, his hair slick with sweat, PJs rumpled, and there were dark circles under his sweet, blue eyes.

"That's because you haven't eaten anything since last night at dinnertime. Well, you did have toast, but you threw it up. You're empty now. Can't throw up when you haven't got anything in your stomach." The boy looked down at his feet. "It's going to be alright. You're going to be alright. I shouldn't of said that. I'm sorry."

"I'm ready to do another round of the game, if you want," he offered, and Greg sat down on the couch on his other side, looking at Lisa. "Is she gonna play with us?" She smiled at him sweetly, but kept her distance.

"No, I don't think so. I have a lot of work to catch up on, and I shouldn't have actually—I didn't really have any reason to come out here. Besides, I'm not very good at it. Your dad tried to teach me once, but…"

"My mom always used to say we think alike, a lot a like," he said, then paused, closing his eyes, tight, concentrating hard.

"Are you okay, Buddy?" Greg asked, touching his hand gently. David shook his head. "Should I go and get the bucket or something?" Again, _no_. David latched onto his father. He was probably a bit too old for that, but he was sick, and was still recovering from losing his mother. "Okay, I'm here. I'm not gonna leave. You get what you came here for?" he asked Lisa, harshly. She nodded, slinking off towards the door. "Hang on a sec. I'm no exactly sure what the right thing to say in this situation is, but—that." She smiled, a little, turning away, and pressing the sleeve of her blouse to her face. "If you wanted to occasionally stop in and see him, might not completely be against the idea." I got up, and went to see her.

"Thank you," she said, before walking out the door. I made sure they were okay, then ran off. When I called at 3:00, and when he answered I could practically hear the laughter in House's voice.

"Hey," he said. "I was in the other room, almost didn't hear the phone ring," he explained, and I could picture the guy hobbling to the handset from the bathroom, still dressed in PJ bottoms, and a t-shirt.

"So, how's the kid doing?" I asked, leaning back n the chair in my office, surveying the IV saline, anti-emetics, and everything else he might need to take care of a really sick kid. "He's still throwing up, isn't he?"

"Yeah, well no, technically dry heaving by now. I think," Greg admitted quietly. "He's pretty sick. I think he might need the stuff." Greg really hated this idea. He didn't like his boy being sick, and what was worse, he couldn't do anything about it. He wanted to help, wanted to make him feel better, wanted to do what a normal parent would, if their child was sick and suffering.

"If you want, I was able to adjust my schedule, and I'm done for the day. I can come home now, bring everything with me. That way we can get him started on the stronger stomach meds, and maybe some, maybe he'll be able to keep something down."

"Yea, okay, look I gotta go. I gave him a little chicken soup, David said he thought he could handle it, and ever since he—well let's just say he was wrong." He sighed again, and I was already on my feet, heading towards the door. I had called him from my cell, not the office phone.

"You can't blame yourself for that," I told him, carefully. "He has to eat, and even David thought he was alright to try. You did the best you could. Sometimes these things just happen."

"Oh shut up and bring us the meds already, okay?" House ordered, hanging up. He met me at the door to his apartment, grabbed the medical supplies, and limped back to the bedroom, where he hooked up an IV, pushed stomach stuff, and placed a bag of saline on the hat rack. "This stuff is gonna make you feel better, and the liquid in the bag, it's like water, but it's got some other stuff in it—you know, you read abut it. This will keep you from getting dehydrated. Maybe in a little while you're gonna feel better and Jimmy might be willing to make you something good to eat."

"Thanks," Dave said, exhaustedly, reaching up for his father's hand. Greg climbed onto the bed, pulling blankets around his son, and moved away a little so he'd be close, but not dangerous. He would never do anything, but he was overly worried because of what his father had done. The medication did exactly what they were supposed to, and he started to get better almost immediately. By the end of the day he had moved on to real food, toast with jelly, chicken soup that kind of stuff.

The next afternoon, he was off the IV meds, sitting up, talking for long periods of time, smiling more, eating more—still fairly bland stuff, just in case, and on Friday morning, House jr. was back to his usual self. I took the two of them costume shopping at one of those Halloween stores. I got myself a "doctor" costume, scrubs, and a surgical mask. Greg—begrudgingly—agreed to wear a tuxedo t-shirt, and top hat, magician, but would not put on a coat, and the kid went as Anakin Skywalker.

"I look like an idiot," Greg whispered to me, when the boy was out of earshot. He took the hat off, and started to button up his jacket. "Why do I need to wear a fucking costume?" He griped.

"Because it's supposed to be fun, and if you had been wearing a cape like I told you, you'd look more like a magician and less like a crappy Charlie Chapman. Look, if we tell David we've got to test his candy, we can eat half of his loot."

"99% of those cases were done by a parent or some other close relative trying to off the kid, and not some random wack job. And besides, I'm not gonna lie to my kid. He'd probably let me have anything I ask for, you too." Greg shoved me, and undid the buttons. "Fine, maybe this isn't entirely stupid." We whispered to each other in between talking to David, waiting for him to walk up to a door, ring the bell, and hold open his pillowcase for candy. He walked back to our side, bulky sack slung over one shoulder.

"Are you okay, Dad?" he asked, reaching for his father's hand. "'cuz if your leg hurts, w can go home, and either stay in, or maybe I can go out again with just Wilson." Greg smiled, but I could see the pained look in his eyes. He was thinking about crashing on the couch. "Does your leg hurt?"

"It always hurts, and sitting at home isn't gonna make it better. At least this is fun. Now go on. Get enough candy so we can all play poker later, and you and I can clean Jimmy out, eat ten pounds of chocolate and pixie-stix in one night. You'll have more than enough to rot every tooth in your head. Baby teeth are supposed to fall out."

"Here," David handed him a chocolate covered marshmallow thing. "I don't like these, ad I know it's your favorite." Then he ran off, heading towards another home, partially lost in a pack of Disney princesses, Spidermen, and homemade costumes.

"You look pretty happy, considering that you're supposed to be the most miserable guy in all of existence. I think this whole fatherhood business is doing really good things for you." Greg just shrugged, popping the candy into his mouth, and stuffing the wrapper down my shirt. "Aww, just what I always wanted." I chuckled, ignoring the disgusting feel of plastic and melted chocolate against my skin, knowing that my reaction was what he really wanted. "You okay?" I asked, touching the back of his head, and leaning in to kiss him.

"Knock it off; somebody's gonna see. Maybe show you some of my more grownup tricks after the kid goes to sleep." He smiled, winking at me. I told Greg it wounded perfect, and the two of us followed after David, hand in hand.


	3. Chocolate, Cards, Chess & Grandmothers

After David collected what felt like five pounds of candy, we walked back to the apartment, sat down at the kitchen table, dumped everything out, and separated it into two piles. One was for stuff the kid really liked, all his favorites, and even the ones he only sort of liked. The rest was candy he either didn't like, wouldn't eat all of—for example he got ten Charleston Chews, but only wanted one or two of them—and whatever Greg was able to convince the boy he absolutely needed. The piles were pretty much equal, and with the contents in mind, the House boys each gave me some candy so we'd each have an equal amount to use as a buy in for the poker game. Greg, David, and I quickly decided that those bite-sized candy bars, and the tiny tootsie rolls were the lowest value (5 cents each), bigger tootsie rolls, lollypops, and pixie-stix were ten cents a piece, and bigger candy bars were 25.

It was my first time playing cards with them, and Dave's second time ever—on Thursday they got tired of the diagnostic game, and picked up a deck of cards—so I didn't except to do too terribly. Unfortunately, I was wrong. In under an hour, they had completely cleaned me out, and I had to buy back in, using poker chips instead of candy. It was after 10:00, the House boys were hopped up on sugar, everything except those solid blue eyes hidden behind their hold cards. David was a natural card shark, and his father was brilliant at reading people.

"Raise you a blow-pop," David said, his voice practically empty, his face trying to look blank. Greg watched him for a long time, as if looking for a tell, or attempting to scare the truth out of him.

"Alright, I call," he said. Then they both turned everything on me. "Jimmy hasn't got shi—squat. You can hear it in his voice. When the guy has good cards he sounds like some pretty girl is sitting in his lap."

"Maybe this isn't the best conversation to be having in front of the kid," I said, but he was right, I had a 2 and 8, in different suits. The flop cards were a 7, a 10, and a queen. "I'll call too." I tossed a red chip into the pile. They both laughed, and watched me deal out the turn card, another 10.

"Peanut M&Ms." The older House tossed it onto the pile. David called; dropping a brown packet next to his dad's, without saying anything. I looked at him, then at Greg, and then back at the boy again.

"I fold," I said, throwing my cards on the table. They both smiled. "Alright guys, this is it. For all the marbles—or in this case, chocolate…" I dropped the river card, a second 7.

"Pixie-Stix," said Greg. David raised a bite-sized Snickers bar. The two of them went back and forth for several minutes, raising higher and higher, one treat at a time until finally Papa House called. "Seven's full of queens!" he crowed, and started to reach for the loot.

"Not so fast," the boy chuckled, showing us his pocket tens. "Four of a kind beats everything except a straight flush. At least, I think it does, right?" He pulled the wrapper off the top of another pixi-stix, pouring it down his throat.

"I think we're gonna have to put a ban on sugar for the rest of tonight," Greg told him. "Besides, it is _way_ past your bedtime. I'm thinking maybe we ought to call it a day."

"You're just saying that because you don't wanna keep losing to me. That's why we started playing poker too. I was getting too good at the other game, and you thought you'd be able to beat me at cards while I was learning how to play."

"Exactly! You've been playing five minutes and you're still winning! At least I'm doing better than Wilson," he said moodily. "Of course even my mom could kick Wilson's butt at poker." Everybody anteed, and I dealt another hand. Pretty soon I was out of chips, and while David's pile had more candy in it, Greg had most of my chips, and all the big chocolate bars. We finally got the kid to go to sleep some time around midnight, and the two of us sat down in the den together.

"You know; you said something earlier, when we were playing cards, and it got me thinking about stuff." He put his feet up, popped a Vicodin, and looked me over carefully. I think he knew where I was trying to go with this.

"Too bad; if you had been thinking about your cards a little more, you probably wouldn't have lost so much candy," he taunted, touching this hand to his chin. "I wish that was half as dirty as it sounds."

"I know you haven't exactly got a great relationship with your mother," I started to say. He gave me a dirty look, and sighed, heavily. "But she didn't hurt you. I know we've talked about this before"

"Yeah, _that_ won't be an awkward phone conversation. 'Hi Mom, thought you'd like to know you have an eight-year-old grandson.'" He looked at me for a long time. "You think I should let her be part of our lives?"

"I think you'd like to have a relationship with her," I tried to explain. I knew it was making him uncomfortable. His father had been the abusive bastard, but his mother lived in the same home, slept down the hall from his room, known about the beatings (tried and failed to stop them), snuck food up to him, and tried to protect the boy for years. She was there the whole time. He couldn't think of, or be with her without being reminded of _him_. "You're scared, but your da—the man is dead. He can't hurt you anymore, and he will never be able to hurt Dave."

"I know that. I'm not afraid of him, not really, not in the way you think. Just makes me—I dunno." He shrugged, yawned, and stared into space for a few minutes. I knew he was thinking about it, and let him do his thing. "Fine," he said, turning back to face me. "I'll call her, but I'm not promising anything else."

"Call her tomorrow, okay," I pushed. I was careful though, and quickly changed my statement. "I mean, why don't you call her tomorrow?" Greg shrugged again, an attempt to look nonchalant. "Ready for bed?" It had been a long day, so I figured House wouldn't feel up to his earlier offer.

"I thought we were supposed to be having some fun." He pretended to whimper. I smiled, touching the side of his face gently. "Oh, great, now you're gonna do the whole, 'oh I don't know, I'm a little worried about your emotional state right now,' thing, aren't you?" he asked, rolling his eyes.

"Well we were just talking about your mother; I guess I'm just surprised that you can switch gears so quickly."

"I'm a man, almost everything is about sex, and the stuff that isn't, can quickly be changed so it is. We were talking about one thing, now we're talking about making out or fucking or whatever you want," he told me, lifting his t-shirt up over his head. Greg kissed me, laying his body on top of mine. "Don't tell me you're not interested." House started tugging on my scrub pants, untying them, and sliding the things down. His hand wrapped around my cock, stroking it softly. "I can't make you disappear, but maybe be able to make it bigger, or do some other cool stuff. I can make you melt and shoot streamers out of your wand."

"What is it with you and magic?" I wondered, but the question was never answered. Greg ignored me, slipping his mouth around my penis, licking, and sucking, and kissing. I leaned back, looking up at him. "I was gonna tell you to shave earlier, but that feels really, really, really good. Ohh, wow!" Waves of pleasure raced up my spine, spreading all through me, as I came in his mouth. Later, after I had done something similar for him, the two of us put on our pajamas, and climbed into bed together.

"Are you okay?" he asked, almost managing to sound concerned. "You act like everything is okay, most of the time, but I don't know what you're really feeling, or whatever, about C—about her. You never mention…" he stopped, searching for the words.

"I talk about Amber all the time. I just don't discuss those things with you. I didn't think you wanted to hear about someone you referred to as Cut-throat Bitch." Despite what I said, he was partially right The House boys had been keeping me fairly pre-occupied, recently, and I hadn't been thinking about Amber as much "Maybe I thought about her a little less the last week or so, but I don't mind that. I haven't forgotten what we had. I'll never forget her, but you guys are here, and you make me feel good."

"But how are you?" he asked, relentlessly. I knew he'd just keep on doing that, asking and re-asking the same question over and over until I told him what he really wanted to hear, and yet I didn't do it, not really.

"Are you actually worried about me, or did you only ask because you're afraid that if I—a healthy adult—can't handle losing a girlfriend, then David might not be able to get over losing his mom at such a young age."

"Well yeah, that scares the crap out of me, but I can't do anything about it right now. Besides, I do _like_ you, Jimmy. If you have a breakdown, you might leave again, and that would be bad for him and me," he said, paused for a minute or two, and then added, "and for you."

"I guess I'm doing okay." In my head, it had sounded much better, but once I'd spoken the words out loud, I quickly realized how truly awful of a response it was. "I cry a lot less now, and I haven't had the nightmare in a couple of weeks, but I still miss her. Don't know if that one will ever go away completely. I am getting better, and so are you, and so is he."

"What do you mean, _I'm_ getting better? Is that some more of your stupid, pop-psychology bullshit? I don't feel any different today than I did last month, or last year, or ten years ago. Moron," he smirked, before falling asleep. I stayed up a little while longer, thinking. Greg may not have wanted to admit it, but he was slightly less miserable. Maybe it was a show for David. Maybe it was a show for me, and the guy was afraid that if he seemed too unhappy, I might abandon him again. Or he really was feeling better, and I was putting too much thought into things.

The kid slept straight through the night without any nightmares, or at least without needing to talk to his dad on the walkie talkie, House said, for the first time since his mother died. In the morning I made chocolate chip pancakes—no mix—and bacon. We ate breakfast, talked, told jokes, and then played another few games of poker. I did a slightly better job this time, although I still got my ass handed to me.

Afterwards Greg asked his son if he wouldn't mind going to his room for a few minutes, to do homework, or read or "whatever you feel like doing. Jimmy and I'll join you in a little while. I have to make a pone call." David studied his face for a moment, but didn't argue. When we were alone, House picked up the receiver, turned it over in his hands, stared at the buttons, started to dial, hung about, sighed, and laid his head on his hands.

"If you'd be more comfortable with it, I can talk to her," I offered. I knew he'd shoot me down, however, I was also hoping that doing so would booster his self-confidence enough to get him to be able to make the call.

"You're going to talk to my mommy for me?' He rolled his eyes, laughing half-heartedly. "I know what you're doing Jimmy. You wanna cheer me up enough so I'll be able to do this. It's actually pretty pathetic if you think about it. Can't even talk to my own mother."

"I'm not sure pathetic is the word I would use. I think it's sad, but not for the same reason you do." He considered my statement for a moment, and then kicked my shin under the table. "Ow! Okay, fine, have it you're way. Call your mom or I'm kicking back."

"I don't hafta do what you tell me," he sneered, but started to dial none-the-less. "Hi, Mom…No, I'm fine…No, really, fine…This call isn't about me….No—really, everything is okay…Can I just say…Yeah, I know. I'm sorry about that…Did I ever introduce you to a girlfriend I had about nine, ten years ago? Sort of tall, blonde hair, sarcastic, smiled a lot, and always carried a camera with her…Yeah, Linda. Well, she sort of forgot to tell me something when we broke up, I uh—I don't know how exactly to explain this…No, really, I am okay. I'm doing really great actually. You don't have to keep asking me that. Nothing is wrong…Mom," he chuckled. "You are never going to believe this…How did you—nobody ever guesses that…Yeah, a baby, well he's not a baby anymore, but….Thought you might like to meet him…Yes, yes…No, I mean it. Really…Well, we could come down there at, um...No, not this week. He's got school and I've got work. Earliest we can make it, is probably Thanksgiving…You wanna talk to him? I uh…No, it's not that…He's had a rough summer. His Mom died, and he doesn't handle meeting new people too well…Good point…Yeah, okay, I'll go get him…Wanna talk to Wilson? Maybe he can send you a check for that stained glass window he broke." Greg handed me the phone, stood up, and went to get the boy.

"But how come we never talked to her before?" David pressed, looking up at his dad with those big, round, puppy dog eyes. House sighed, and made a face. _We can talk about that one later_.

"She's nice, and generous, and sincere, but uh—be careful what you say. Don't lie to her, because 1. it's not such a fantastic thing to do, and 2. because my mom's like a human polygraph. Also, try not to be too much of a smart Alec, either."

"What should I call her?" Again the man shrugged. "Is Grandma okay?" He nodded. Dave took the phone from me. "Hi Grandma….I'm eight, which I guess means you owe me about eight years of birthday presents and stuff." Greg looked positively horrified. "Sorry, sometimes I make jokes when I'm nervous…No it's okay. You don't have to get me anything…My birthday was in July...It was awesome. Dad got me a telescope, and we drove out of the city to this state park. We stayed in a log cabin, and went outside every night to look at the stars…I'm not really sure yet…Yeah, he said we're gonna come and visit you at Thanksgiving….Um, I dunno. I go to a special school, and pretty much get to study whatever I pick, so I like every subject…No, you don't have to do that…Well, if you really want to, I guess maybe chocolate chip and peanut butter...Okay, here's my dad again…Bye." Greg only talked to his mother for a few more minutes.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" I asked him, a little while later. "I mean, obviously you're not okay, okay, but...I'm stuttering and I sound like an idiot. _This_ is a good thing. You made the right choice." House laughed at me. "You're allowed to be happy. In fact, I really, really hope this stuff will help you to…okay, I'll shut up, just stop making that disgusting face at me."

"Alright, sounds fair," he told me, sticking his tongue out instead.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Our plane took of from Newark at about 4:45 on Wednesday, November 26th. The House boys and I were seated right next to each other, row 19, seats A, B, and C. David was very excited, because it was his first airplane ride ever, while Greg tried to act like everything was normal but, to me, he seemed a little on edge. Although he was pretty good at not letting it show. Starting right after takeoff, they set up a travel-sized, magnetic chess set, and were almost instantly embroiled in an intense battle.

"We should get some of those timers, and play speed chess," David suggested, capturing a bishop. "Oh, and check!"

"No way," father ordered. I think it was the first time I'd ever seen him completely shoot down an idea from the kid. "Absolutely not. Speed chess is fun, but it makes for sloppy players. It'll ruin your technique and make you lazy." He watched the boy's reaction, and added, "You're really good at this though. I'm way older and smarter than you are, but I'm still losing."

"When the stewardess comes by with the drink trolley, can I have a soda?" he asked, making hiss adorable, half sad/ half pathetic,_ I really want this_ face. Greg reached over, tickling his underarms. David laughed, and squirmed. "Dad, cut it out."

"If you have caffeine this late in the day, you'll be up all night. So, either 7up or Sprite is okay, or if you want a Ginger Ale it's alright too. That's what grownups call a compromise. Sound good to you?" David nodded "Oh, hey," he taunted, making his move. "Look what we have here. I think that's check."

"Puh-leeze! I could counter those moves with my eyes closed," the boy said, castling. "I'll have your king in eleven moves" Greg made a soft grunting sound, studying the board. "Don't even think about touching your knight, unless you wanna hand it over" I watched him watch the pieces, his hand over his queen, then his rook, knight, a pawn, and finally, back to the queen. The game ended, not in Dave's victory as he predicted, but instead in a stalemate, just before they had to close up the board and stow their trays for landing. "Thanks for not letting me win."

"You don't need to worry about that happening anytime soon. Now, look, I just wanna go over the rules for talking to my mom really quickly, alright?" I thought it was sweet, his being nervous, wanting his mom to like them. He didn't want Blythe to feel sad, hurt, or to be horrified by anything her son, and now grandson, did or said. What's more, he didn't want anything to jeopardize their possible relationship.

"Don't lie to Grandma," the boy said with a giggle. "Try not to mouth off, and definitely don't repeat any of the sarcastic, smart Alec stuff I've heard you say about your life, or your leg, or anything." Greg hugged the boy, and smiled.

"It's okay, Pal. Everything's gonna be okay. We're about to touch down, if you wanna look out the window, it's sort of a cool thing to watch, at least the first few times." Then, he turned to me. "Tell me the same thing I just told him, but make me believe it?"

"What, that everything is going t be okay?" I asked, touching his hand, ever so gently. "Sorry, House, can't do it. You'll never believe me, no matter how many times I tell you." He sighed but seemed to agree. The plane landed, and we waited for everyone else to get off so he would have an easier time walking. We collected our bags—or rater I collected them—and met up with Blythe.

"Oh my—goodness," she exclaimed. "Greg, he looks almost exactly like you. It's uncanny." He managed a small smile, and let his mother hug him, although somewhat awkwardly. David raced up, and hugged her next.

"Hi Grandma! Um—I'm supposed to say, how excited I am to meet you." He blushed slightly. "Of course, I am excited, but ussually I just get all quiet and don't say much when I meet somebody for the first time, but I don't feel like that now," They were both smiling. "Oh, and my name is David." This got us all laughing, although I'm not completely sure why. Greg and I rented a car, a station wagon, which he complained about a little.

"I can't believe I'm actually going to drive this thing," he murmured. "This is officially the lamest thing I've ever done, which—if you think about it—is actually sort of an accomplishment."

"Yeah, making sure you have a safe vehicle to cart your kid around in, totally ruining your image. Assuming that anybody in this town knows who you are, or anything about you," I said, laughing.

"Now you're just trying to make me sound like a jacka—jerk. He'd be fine in just about anything, other than the bike, and even I'm not irresponsible enough to put an eight-year-old on a motorcycle."

House's mom's place was decorated incredibly. Blythe had hung up streamers, and picked out gourds that were placed everywhere, along with a horn of plenty and flowers, and little pilgrim hats. There was even a large, handmade centerpiece, a paper mache turkey with realistic feathers. It was quite amazing, considering it was made by a 70-something-year-old woman with no art training whatsoever. "Wow, you really went all out, Mom"

"Now David, I know you said you were only joking about the eight years of back presents, but what's the fun of having a grandson if I can't spoil him?" she asked, as she walked over to the closet and pulled out five really big gift-wrapped packages. "Now, this one is just clothes, but I still thought you might like some of them."

"What about the rest of the boxes?" he asked, excitedly, and then—with care—started to pull the tape away from the edges, opening the clothes box first. "Dad, look! She got me Star Wars pajamas!" In the few months I'd know the kid I learned that the only things he liked more than school and learning were Star Wars and some cartoon about the Justice League.

"A little birdie whispered in my ear, said you might like those" she explained, "and as for the rest of those…well, you're just going to have to open them up." Then, she turned to her son. "It's okay that I did this, isn't it?"

"You already gave him the boxes; I can't very well take them back, and like you said. You are his grandmother; it's sort of your job." She smiled and hugged him again. "I'm gonna help him open those boxes." Greg sat down beside his son. "These are nice slacks. They're a little big, but that's okay. Less stuff I'll hafta buy when you get bigger again. Kids your age grow almost a foot a year, for a while."

"I'm gonna need a lot of shoes then, aren't I?" Once again everyone laughed. "Thank you, Grandma this stuff is great." They both tore open the wrapping, gently, on the other presents. David was given a book on astronomy, and another on dinosaurs/fossils, a couple of science fiction novels, two cartridges for his Gameboy, some action figures—Star Wars and Justice League Unlimited—and a couple of those model making kits he liked so much. They were the good kind, the ones where you have to cut the pieces out, and glue them together. House said it took them a couple hours to make each one.

Dave had already made a t-rex, a velociraptor, a flying saucer, and a 1968 Ford Mustang. Each one was painted vibrant, neon colors, the sort of imaginative, creative thing I'd come to expect from both of them. House told me that, after his mom's death, David carried her camera around for weeks, taking pictures of absolutely everything, and—for the first few days—never talking. I'd seen some of the photos he'd taken, and they were incredible. Greg and I even picked out a few of them (self portraits of Dave, snapshots House had taken of his son, pictures of the two of them together, a few of just his father—one posed, two spontaneous—one of the three of us, and a couple of his dad and I together) and put them in a nice book, to give to Blythe.

"What do you say?" Greg patted the boy's arm. David smiled, ran over and hugged his grandmother again. She grinned, holding onto him for over a minute. She looked so happy there, almost like she was seeing her own child smiling, happy.

"Thank you," the little boy told her, truthfully. "Everything is perfect." Then he walked back across the room and hugged his dad. "Thanks for telling Grandma what to get me."

"Yeah, well she just called me up, asking what sort of stuff you were into. I didn't know she was going to do all this. Mom, this is incredible. I know what you said, before, but you didn't have to go this much trouble. Just promise you won't give him three or four hundred dollars worth of stuff every weekend."

"Greg, I wasn't planning on anything like that, and you know it. There's no reason to worry. This little boy of yours is far too sweet for anybody to ever be able to make him rotten." She explained. House nodded, but then looked sad.

"Of course, you probably would have said the exact same thing abut me when I was David's age," he said sighing, "And just look at how I turned out." He leaned back on the sofa, and touched his chin.

"You are _not _rotten," she scolded him, maybe a bit too harshly, but the woman was concerned, and I don't think she had been able to control herself. "You aren't, Greg, and I want to hear you say it."

"Mom," he groaned. "Aw come on!" There was no way Blythe would let this go. She stared him down. _Say it to me, and mean it, _her eyes ordered. I wasn't sure this was the best way to go about it, but agreed that he needed to believe it. "Alright, alright, I am not rotten." I wasn't convinced, neither was House's mom, but the admission alone was a lot from the guy. So, she let that be enough for the time.

"Now, if you'll excuse me for a minute, I need to stick the meatloaf in the oven, so it'll be finished when we're ready to eat. Then, I'm going to want to learn everything there is to know about my grandson." She disappeared into the kitchen, and David ripped open the box holding three Justice League Unlimited action figures, none of which he'd owned before that day.

"Dad, look, it's The Question! He's only in half a dozen episodes but he was really cool, and Wonder Woman, and the Flash!" he exclaimed. "I really like it here. We're gonna be coming back a lot, right? And Grandma's gonna come and visit us too?" House didn't answer right away, but I could tell from the look on his face, that he wanted to tell the boy, yes. He hated to make promises, unless he knew he was going to be able to keep them. Greg wasn't sure how his relationship with his mother would turn out, or if she'd get sick, or if David might suddenly change his mind about the woman—as unlikely as it might have seemed at the time—and as such was hesitant to say anything.

"I'd like that, and I'm sure she would too. I really hope we can keep this up. Right now, I don't see any reason not to think that we won't be seeing more of my mom. But you and I both know how much broken promises stink, so I'm not going to say, "I promise she'll stay in your life forever and ever," but we can try to spend as much time together as possible, okay?" Dave nodded, excitedly.

Soon Blythe returned, and sat down between her son and grandson, on the couch. We talked all evening, through dinner, and well into the night. Around 10:00, we took our things back to our hotel room, and put the boy to bed. Greg and I stayed awake a little while longer talking, then climbed into bed together, and turned off the lights.

"Are you alright for tomorrow?" I asked the question that had been in the back of my mind all day. It was only Thanksgiving dinner wit his mother, his son, and me, but it was also his first family meal in years.

"I dunno," he admitted. "There's no way to be sure about stuff like this. I guess we'll just have to wait and see, just like everything else." He turned onto his side, and I heard him laugh, quietly. When I asked why, he said, "I just looked at the clock. It's after 1:00 AM."

"Well then, happy Thanksgiving, House," I told him, with a smile, and a hug. He didn't look at me, at least I don't think he did, but in the darkness of our hotel room it was impossible to be sure.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he said, which was code for _Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Wilson_.


	4. Rational Fear

AN: Sorry for the short chapter, but up until tonight's episode I wasn't sure where to go, and now I wanna get this part up there before I get started on the next chapter.

"Close your eyes, have no fear.  
The monsters gone;  
he's on the run and your daddy's here," John Lennon

I woke up some time later, to the sound of hushed voices. It was still mostly dark out, but a small sliver of light was shining in through the gap in the curtains. Greg was sitting on the edge of the other bed, near (but not too close to) David, who was sitting with his knees hugged to his chest.

"I think I just got scared more than usual, 'cuz this isn't my room. I woke up from a bad dream in someplace I don't know. It was dark. I couldn't see you, and I panicked." The boy seemed ashamed of his fear, a not together uncommon occurrence in this family. Greg tried to hide his own fears from his son, tried to act normal, so the kid would feel safe to express his emotions, to feel things, to know that they were all okay, all allowed, all good things.

"There's nothing wrong with that," he explained, hugging his son. "Everybody gets scared sometimes, and a lot of us, that is, I uh, I…we, well, I," he stammered. "I get scared sometimes too. Actually I get scared a lot." House's was trying to make this sound important, but also attempting to make Dave see that fear wasn't a big deal. This was a tough task, and I wasn't sure if he could do it.

"Me too," I admitted, letting them know that I was awake, and listening. "Probably not as much as you guys, but your dad's right. Being scared, it's not a bad thing." David rolled his eyes, tiredly, and shot me a look. I knew it very well; both House's had made the same face at me on a regular basis.

"It's one thing to be afraid when you're in the front car of a roller coaster, about to tumble over the crest, when all of the sudden, you look down and the tracks are rotted halfway trough. My dad would never leave me. I have no reason to be scared. It's not rational."

"Fear is never—almost never—rational, unless you're in a building, and that an airplane in the distance is getting a little too close for comfort." _Great, the metaphor kings are at it again_, I thought. _ The two of them are going to be like this all night. _

"Did you just a make a 9-11 Joke?" I asked, amazed that Greg could still surprise me after all these years. He shrugged. I tried to think of something to say to David, something smart, but it didn't come. "Any doctor will tell you that every once in a while, they wake up in the middle of the night, convinced they gave a paitent the wrong meds, and killed them. I've been a doctor for fifteen years, and still have that dream. How rational is that?"

"But that one's actually possible. Doctors screw up all the time," David insisted. I chuckled. They both stared at me, strangely. "I wish my mom was still here. She always knew exactly what to say when I had a bad dream."

"If she was still alive, you wouldn't be having these particular nightmares. Sorry, that sounded a whole lot less cruel in my mind. Look, you're going to keep on feeling bad for a while, but eventually the dreams will stop."

"But how long is _that _gonna take?" Dave asked the exact same question after virtually every nightmare. Greg didn't know the answer, neither did I, neither did the kid. He watched his father, touched his hand, and then hugged him.

"I'm sorry, Pal. I guess I'm not very good at this. I don't really know how to help. Maybe if I were stronger, I'd be better at emotional stuff, and would be able to actually answer your questions."

"You're very strong, and it's okay, Dad. For the most part, I just wanted to make sure you were still here. "I'm not feeling completely better, but I think I'm okay enough to go back to sleep." House nodded, but didn't stand up right away.

"Do you want me to—is there. I know there's something I'm supposed to do in this situation, but my "father" didn't exactly do a lot of comforting me when I was growing up. So, I'm not sure what to tell you about anything."

"My mom useda say no one knows how to be a parent. Each kid is different, we all need different stuff, emotionally, physically, whatever. Every situation is unique, and needs to be dealt wit in it's own way. Like, in kindergarten. I kept getting in trouble in for talking back in class, and after the third time they had to call my mom because I was correcting her. The first time we talked about it and I didn't really get punished. The second time my mom wouldn't let me watch TV for a month. Then, after the third time, I was sent to the school shrink's office. She talked to me, and decided I needed to take an IQ test. Everyone knew I was bright, but they didn't know how much. That's when I got skipped ahead, and as soon as I stopped being bored, I stopped getting in trouble.

"If they had tested you the first time it happened," Greg started to say, but I ct him off.

"He was six, and in school for the first time ever. Lots of kids that age act up. They did the right thing. Most of the time, that kind of behavior is a sign of a kid learning where the limits are and how far they can push it. If the public schools tested every kid who talks back, it would waste hours of the therapist's and kid's time, along with money, tests, and most of the kids would feel like crap because they were told they might be a genius and then, 'nope, sorry, you're not.' Devastating to their self-esteem." Greg and David both laughed, but they also knew I was right. The kid unfolded his legs, laid down, pulled the covers up around his body, and curled up on his left side and his back, the way his dad did.

"You can go back to your own bed now," the boy offered. House rubbed his leg, slowly moving forward so he could stand up without a searing shot of pain racing from his knee up to his mid-back. "But it wouldn't hurt me if you stayed…"

"It's two feet. Moving around would be one thing if my bed were on the fifth floor, and yours was on the first, but I'm just going right over there…unless you _want_ me to stay," he sighed, scratching his chin. "Is that what you want?" David edged closer to his father.

"I'm not. How about a compromise? I stay here until you fall asleep, and then go back to my bed. Makes us both happy. You get to be close enough to feel and know that I'm still here, and I get more time to make my leg ready to move." They both agreed to this, and David fell asleep again within fifteen minutes. By 3:30, Greg was laying down next to time, his hand touching mine, face pressed into my shoulder. "I'm not like _him_. I would never hurt my kid the way _he_ hurt me, but," he paused, sighing again.

"But you're uncomfortable with the idea of spending the night in the same bed as your eight-year-old son." I was hoping to lessen his suffering, by saying what he couldn't. I touched Greg's hair, gently. "My recommendation would be to go with your instincts. Your gut tells you to stay out of his bed; then stay out of his bed. Now this is the important part. I'm not suggesting this because I think there's a possibility he might get hurt, especially not by you. I know you'd never do it. You know it. Even he knows you'd never lay a finger on him, but you were sexually abused by a—parental figure, and so now that you've become a parent yourself, you're uncomfortable, and afraid, and that's not going to go easily."

"More irrational fear, goody," he grunted. "Right before she died, I talked to Linda about what happened when I was a kid. I told her what my _dad_ did to me, said I didn't think I could take care of David. She said the exact same things you're telling me."

"Is there anything I can say that will help?" Greg shook his head, and closed his eyes, yawning. "He's safe. What you told your son, how he will feel better one day, eventually, when the time is right, the same thing is true in your case." Greg tried to stifle his laughter by pressing his hand over his mouth. "You're emotionally five, makes sense that you would. Why are you laughing?"

"Because you're a moron. The stuff I keep on telling him, all comes from his shrink. Not sure how much of it I actually believe for him, let alone myself. Nobody's," he stopped himself again, looking at the kid's bed, checking to see if he was really asleep. "Nobody's ever okay. The worst thing that ever happens to you screws you up for ever. Mine happened when I was a little kid. He's eight, and his mother just died. Either I hope that this is his worst thing, and he had seven good years before his whole world was shattered, or I pray that something even worse happens to my kid." I wanted to tell Greg he was wrong. I wanted to argue my point. I wanted to say something, but noting came to me, not for—a very long time,

"You are right. Everyone's screwed up in one way or another, but you're also wrong. Everybody's damage is different. Some of them are still abele to deal with it. They get stronger, healthier, happier. They live relatively normal lives, even in the case of a kid whose parent dies. He can be okay. He will be okay, and so will you."

"What does that even mean?" he wondered, out loud, before finally telling me to shut up, and going to sleep. I held him, and in later, we got up, got dressed, and went to Blythe's place for Thanksgiving dinner. That evening went similarly to the one before it. Greg and his mom got along pretty well, considering, but it was still skimming the surface of things. He hadn't told her what he'd gone through, because he wasn't ready, but we knew that he would never be fully able to heal from being abused as a little kid, without the help, love, and support of his mother.

Between dinner and dessert, Greg and David started to work on a 10,000 piece jigsaw puzzle, at the dining room table. Blythe and I watched them, lovingly. Then she turned to me, and said, "Is he alright?" I had no idea what I should tell her, because I wasn't sure what she meant. Greg had his problems, nearly all of which were caused by what John had done to him, but he was dealing with them. In a way. "IF the answer was yes, you would have said so by now." But having the boy around was really helpful to him. He was smiling and laughing a lot more often. House still hated the world, just not every inch of it.

"He's a lot better than he was ten, or five years ago, even the last few months. Their coming together was a miracle. Greg and Dave, I don't know how, but they heal each other. I think it's magic." She didn't have to ask, I knew what question she was thinking. I also knew what had her so worried. _Why does e need to be healed so badly_, she wanted to know. "I can't tell you. I'm sorry, but it's his decision."

"You don't have to tell me. Jon was very sick. He knew he was dying, and near the end. He became desperate. He told me he needed to confess. He'd done something terrible, wanted—needed—to be forgiven." She covered her mouth, a soft sob barely escaping. I lifted my head, turning to check on the House boys. They were sitting at the table, intensely interested at their puzzle, and the goofy, childish puns they kept telling each other. "My husband, told me every, single, horrible thing he did to my son, to my sweet, smart, wonderful little boy. Down to the last, disgusting detail. He told me he was a monster, and then dared to ask me to tell him it was okay." She was crying and while Greg hadn't noticed yet, it was only a matter of time. I hugged her gently.

"It must have been a difficult situation. He was your husband and you loved him, but at the same time," I started to tell her, but saw something in the woman's eyes. "You couldn't do it, could you?" She shook her head. _Good for you_. "There's no way you could have known, and you shouldn't blame yourself. He's not alright yet, but e will be. Greg is very strong. He is…you need to talk to him about this. If he knew that you know…"

"I'm fine, we don't have to keep discussing this," she said, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. _Now I know where he gets that from_, I thought. If my experience with her son had taught me anything it was that if one of them didn't want to talk about something, it wouldn't happen. 'He's not ready to talk to me, or else he would have done it already." She was right about that much; although I had a feeling that if he knew that she had been told about what he'd been through. We ate dessert without much fuss, or concern, and after a short argument, Greg convinced his mom to skip their usual, boring diner at her sister—his aunt Sarah's—place, and join us in New Jersey for a holiday at our apartment.


	5. Failing with Style

Once I had it all planned out,  
my dirty fingers moved about,  
to make a mess of everything around me.  
I don't claim to know my way.  
I still run in circles everyday,  
running around half blind,  
life can be unkind," Fastball.

One week before Christmas, Cuddy got her miracle baby, House was nice to a paitent, and subsequently received a gift from the woman, and David started Winter vacation, which meant that he was off of school for two weeks. I dragged Greg to a baby store where we got two sleepers (one pink with flowers on it, and the other purple with bears) and a butterfly mobile. Well, technically I paid for them; he and David put their names on the card. Then, we went to her office to ask for time off. It went well, he behaved himself for the most part, at first, and she agreed.

"Don't go out of town," Lisa ordered. "You've gotta stay close, in case I need you." There was an awkward pause. "For a case you creep!" We were both quiet (miraculously on House's part) but even I was thinking that she probably could have phrased that better.

"We're just gonna hang out, get a tree, normal stuff. His mom useda go all out for Christmas, and I sort of, would like to maintain his—lifestyle—as much as I possibly can, wanna make him feel normal, okay, good, or something. And by the way, if you tell anybody that I said any of those things, I'll tell everybody about that heart-shaped birthmark on your hip, and explain how I saw it." We left after I apologized, and thanked Cuddy for her generosity, then went home.

The House boys raced to the kitchen, to finish the game of Battleship they had been playing earlier in the day. The two of them played a lot of board games—usually ones I couldn't keep up with, when either one was my opponent—and slightly fewer videogames. Greg didn't think it had any redeeming qualities other than being fun, whereas Chess, Mancala, and even Checkers all required intense concentration, planning, and skill. Later they moved to Mastermind, then sat side by side on the couch—bodies positioned almost identically—reading separately; Greg had a book on rare medical cases (of course) with funny endings, David _The Count of Monte Cristo_, and lastly—right before bed—a few games of black jack. We played with three decks, Greg memorizing exactly which cards had been played, calculating exactly what would come next, while David was learning how to count cards, and me dealing. Had they been playing at a casino, both would have gone home rich as kings.

House insisted it was just about math, and luck, and having fun, but I think he liked the idea of teaching his kid to gamble. Not to hurt him, or make the boy an addict, but because it was considered unusual, weird, perhaps even a little irresponsible, or bad. I'm not sure if he expected me to yell at or lecture him, but Greg had a constant need to push the envelope, break rules, try to see what he could get away with, and what he couldn't. He took a risk trying stuff like that with David, because I had never seen the kid tell him off, unless they were goofing around with each other. David was either unwilling or unable to say, "Stop that Dad, you're being an asshole," Of course, around the kid I had only ever seen the man act like an asshole once, and that was when Cuddy pretty much broke into our apartment to yell at him. I'm not exactly sure how to explain it, except that around his child, Gregory House became an entirely different person, and yet not much really changed. "You gonna tell me off for teaching him how to cheat casinos out of their money?" he asked after the kid had gone to sleep.

"Why would I do _that?_ You're helping him with complicated math. I've seen med students who can't keep track of their paitents doses, let alone all the things you have to do right for counting cards, and besides, you aren't taking him to Atlantic City with a fake ID and buying him a couple strippers."

"I'm saving that one for his tenth birthday," he chuckled. I hugged him, smiled, and the two of us moved to the sofa. "I dunno, maybe I shouldn't teach him any of this crap. Think it could scar him for life."

"By playing a game? Look, if you're really worried about it, how about I give you an example. I can tell you that my brothers and I used to play poker with my dad all the time. "Cards are fun; it's something to do. And black jack, it's the same, except even more of a challenge, in some ways. You would never do anything hurt that boy."

"Why do you keep on saying those things? Think it's gonna make me believe them? Every parent scars their kid in one way or another. We just don't do as bad as my "father," and while I would never do anything on purpose, I will screw up, probably a lot, and he'll most likely be way too sweet to say something about it." He sighed, laying his head against my shoulder. "How can I be a good father when I'm not even a good person?" The whole conversation had been leading up to this one question. This was his real problem, and I didn't know how to solve it.

I didn't consider House to be a horrible person, or evil, two things he'd insisted he was, on multiple occasions, especially recently (since David moved in). As much as he liked to mess with people's heads, test the rules, push things, he also wanted to be good. He would have loved it if people liked and treated him well, but was so certain that they would hurt him, he pushed them away before anyone had the chance to get close. With his son around, needing to be taken care of, the older of the House boys felt a constant sense of worry, nervousness, and a fair amount of fear. He loved that little boy more than anything else in the world, and wanted the kid to have everything he'd never got. Greg wanted Dave to grow up to be happy, to have nothing in common with his father except his intelligence, and one or two of the more positive genetic traits.

"What if he grows up to be an annoying, sarcastic, rule breaker, who lies, steals, cheats, drinks, and _hurts_ all the time? What if I can't make up for his mom—dying or if he can't ever feel happy ever again?"

"Greg, you can relax. He _is _happy. Not all day every day, but nobody as that. Your son is going to be just fine. You, on the other hand just might give yourself an ulcer if you don't calm down and stop telling everyone that you're an evil, horrible monster who's going to ruin his son's live because he isn't qualified to take care of a houseplant."

"You're an idiot," he replied, but didn't seem nearly as on edge as he had been five minutes before. House wasn't angry. He didn't know whether or not to be afraid or mad, or if he felt anything at all. Greg stood up, crossing to the bed.

"You are a good person. You deserve to be loved, and treated decently and taken care of, and protected from all the really bad people in this world. I love you, and _I _am telling you that you are not evil."

"Why would you say something so incredibly stupid, you goddamn mother-fucking moron? Of course I'm a bad person. I'm an evil little shit, and I can't do anything to change that. Doesn't matter how many dying people I make healthy, or how good I am to him. In comparison to all the crap I've pulled…well, it doesn't even come close." I tried to put my arm around him, but Greg pushed it away violently. I sighed, knowing he needed space, but wanting more than anything to hold him, rock with him, and whisper all the right things in his ear over and over until he actually believed them. Only, I didn't know what those words were.

We spent an hour sitting several feet apart like that, before he let me say a word. Then, I talked to him for a wile. He listened, without saying much. By the time we went to bed, he hadn't changed his mind, but did calm down considerably (thanks to a bit of cuddling, a few of the right words from me, and a fist full of pills) and was willing to believe that he wasn't the worst, most evil man, or father on the entire planet.

House slept for about 90 minutes before David woke us up, and then went to help his son, who was more terrified I had ever seen him. The kid had just had a graphic nightmare in which his father was shot and killed—in front of him—by "bad guys," and he was subsequently kidnapped, then tortured. Once David calmed down, and sat with his father for a while, he went back to sleep, ignoring my attempt to explain how amazing what he'd just done was.

A few days went by, and then, the night before Blythe was due to arrive for her Christmas visit, while we were in the kitchen with me, and Dave was in his room, with headphones on, I started talking to him about it again. I placed a batch of sugar cookies in the oven, and sat down at the table next to Greg.

"Hey," I prodded, gently, placing my hand on top of his. "You okay?" He shrugged. "Do you think this is what we should be doing? Because if you want, if you think we should, there's still time to call your mother and say you changed your mind."

"It's nothing," he lied. Technically this was the first time he had ever really celebrated Christmas, and I think he wasn't sure what to do or how to feel. Greg looked away, pulling his hand out of my grasp. "Besides, David's excited, and my mom likes spending time with us. What else can I do?" _It's too late to stop it,_ he meant.

"But this is what you want, right?" Another shrug. "You don't know what you want?" The same response. I sighed "Are you worried about something? Is that what this is about?" He nodded. "About your mom spending time with him? You think she's going to do something wrong, or bad or," I stopped, as he shook his head vehemently. "What then?"

"I don't wanna say the wrong thing," he explained, scratching his chin, nervously. _Huh? _I wondered. "If she ever finds out what happened to me when I was—what her husband put me through, the things he did to me while she was asleep in the next bedroom, it'll break her heart. Can't let that happen. So, I gotta go the whole trip and be extra careful not to say anything to suggest that my childhood wasn't perfect." _ Jesus, House. If the two of you would actually talk to each other for five seconds you'd both feel much, much, much better, and realize that these secrets are pointless and stupid_, I wanted to scream.

"Greg, you have to tell her the truth," I tried to explain, gently, attempting to put my hand on his again, this time touching his shoulder, but I should have known what a big mistake it was. He all but punched me out of not wanting to be touched. "She'll be fine. Your mother is an extremely strong woman."

"What aren't you telling me?" he snapped, grabbing my wrist and squeezing it with every ounce of strength in his body. "Tell me or I'll break your fucking arm." I wince, and he let go immediately. "Okay so I'm not so good at beating the crap out of people. You're still gonna tell me, right?"

"I can't," I said in a serious tone, massaging my arm. "I'm sorry, but I promised I wouldn't." _ Shit_, I thought. _I shouldn't have said that. _"I mean, uh. Look this isn't really. I don't know what I'm talking about. My arm really hurts," I stammered.

"Then take one of these," he said, tossing a bottle of Vicodin to me. "And just tell me whatever the fuck it is that you're trying to keep from me, 'cuz to be fucking honest I don't like it when you keep stuff from and lie to me." I gave him a look. He only swore this much when he was frustrated or scared. "Please, Jimmy. Don't do this."

"I'm not doing anything to you, and I have to keep my mouth shut. I'm sorry, but I just can't tell you about this. I'm sorry. I want to, I do, but I promised her I wouldn't."

"Why are you and my mother keeping secrets from me?" He looked positively heartbroken, and I knew that he was thinking the two of us had to be up to something cruel, cold, and horrible. The truth never would have occurred to him.

"I'm not keeping anything from you, and neither is she." I sighed, reaching for his hand yet again, but he ripped it out of my grasp, again. "You shouldn't get all twisted up over this. Greg, look, I—don't make that face. You know I can't resist the look." He tried to make himself appear even more hurt, sadder, and more afraid. "It's not what you think. Not at all, not even close." He seemed seconds away from tears and although I knew he was faking—in part—I folded. "When we were at your mother's place for Thanksgiving, I made the mistake of telling her that you and Dave heal each other—which is true—and of course she asked why you needed to be healed. I didn't say a word, I swear. Greg straightened himself out, staring me down, angrily, and wiped his eyes.

"I'm—I. Then, what happened?" was about all he could manage to say. Before I could answer him, he pressed his hand over my mouth, standing up part of the way, to look and see if David was in earshot. "Hey you! What's 12x12?" No response. "That's our secret code. If I wanna make sure he's not eavesdropping, I ask that. It's also what he's supposeda say if a stranger comes up to him and says, 'your dad sent me to get you. There's been an accident,' or something." I almost asked, _isn't that just a bit too easy?_ "If they say 144 or anything else, Dave doesn't go. If the guy or girl says 73 on the other hand, well then he knows I sent them. It's a prime number and so nobody could possibly come up with that even on accident. Sorry for rambling. Just hadda check and see if he was listening. Wanted to know what was—I don't want him to hear this shit."

"But she knew. Apparently when he was really close to...your—fath…" Greg's shove cut me off. He didn't want to hear me call John the f-word. "He knew he was going to die and decided to ask for forgiveness for all the bad things he had done in his life. The guy confessed to beating you up, yelling at, and treating you like crap, as well as—the other stuff." House made an extremely small, quiet sound, like a whimper, almost. "She knows everything." I moved to hug him, but Greg threw himself out of my reach, stood up, and marched out of the kitchen. I don't know what would have happened if David hadn't been in the next room, but he was, and so instead of doing what he planned, Greg sat down beside his son on the couch, putting his feet up carefully, and sighed.

"What's wrong?" his boy asked, gently, taking off his headphones, and hugging him. The older of the two shook his head some more. "I know something is going on. You look so sad." Greg took a deep breath. He didn't know what to say, think, or do.

"You know how your mom and I have told you that nobody has the right to touch you, hit you, be mean to you, stuff like that?" he asked, cautiously, making sure not to use specific words that would terrify the kid. "Well, when I was little, nobody said—most grown ups didn't know anything about that stuff. My uh—the guy I—," he made another odd sound. This time I didn't try to touch either of them.

"I found a piece of paper in your work stuff a couple months ago. The one that said your dad wasn't really your dad," David tried to hug his father, who allowed it. "Did he _hurt_ you?" Greg looked like he believed himself to be a monster, like he couldn't believe he had even mentioned the concept of that sort of hurt to an eight-year-old.

"I was ashamed by it, hurt, scared, all kinds of stuff, and I never told anybody. Not for years and years. I'm just—probably going to have to talk to my mom about it. But that's nothing for you to feel scared or sad or bad about. You don't have to worry. I'm okay now. Well, I'm better that I was, just," his voice trailed off but I couldn't tell if it was because he didn't know what to say or didn't want to finish.

"But it's hard to let people you love know how much you're hurting," David finished for him. I wasn't sure which of the House boys I should have been more proud of, Greg was being brave, and finally talking, opening up about his problems, or David for his perceptive nature, and his ability to sympathize with his dad, help him, make him feel good. Greg nodded, trying to act brave for him.

"I shouldn't be confiding in a toddler," he said, pushing away a bit. David made a face, as if to tell his dad he was being stupid. "So you excited about tomorrow?" he asked, praying for his attempt to change the subject to work. He hadn't wanted to talk about this in the first place, he told me later, but the kid could read his moods and wouldn't have stopped until he found out what was bothering him. "Figure out where I'm hiding your presents yet?" The boy shook his head, slowly. "Well, it's only two days before Christmas Eve. I suppose if you want, we can go get one of them, open it up now, do our own little 12 days of Christmas sort of thing." Dave shook his head. "Can you still talk?" he nodded. "Alright, fine, then. Guess I'm gonna have to tickle a response out of you!" Greg grabbed him, pushed him onto his back, held his arms down with his elbow, and dug his fingers into the sensitive skin around the kid's armpits, belly, and feet. House Junior squirmed, legs kicking, laughing heartily. His face was bright pink and turning red, tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks.

"Okay, I give up, Dad, I'll talk, just stop. Please?" Father responded instantly, doing exactly as he was told, and gave his son a few minutes to stop hyperventilating, relax, and feel okay.

"My mom was really strict about me not opening my presents before Christmas morning. She wasn't mean, and I knew where everything was, so I could go look at them but I didn't do it. I'm really paitent." Greg nodded. _I wish I was like that_, I thought, and—had a feeling—so did he.

"Now, I think it's about time we had ourselves a little refresher course in the whole snooping in other people's business thing," he added. I thought that was a bit of a strange topic for him to be lecturing someone about, but quickly learned that—of course—the guy had his own spin on things.

"Rule number one never do it to you. Number two, which is more important, especially if I'm gonna break rule number one, never, ever, ever get caught, and number three, if I do get caught, don't confess to anything without a lawyer." Greg's eyebrows jumped halfway to the ceiling, as a small grin spread across his face.

"I swear I did not teach him that last part," House attempted, to explain, half mortified—if he ever felt embarrassment—but was close to laughing at the same time. "But it's just so damn funny." He giggled. "Now I do want to talk to you seriously for a minute. Snooping is a great way to learn stuff, but it's not widely accepted as a good thing. You can get into a lot of trouble, and people won't like you very much. Probably grow up to be like me."

"What's wrong with that?" Dave asked innocently, the way only a child could. Sometimes they talked about his cases, clinic paitents, funny stories from work, but other than that, virtually none of Greg's life outside of their world, made it into conversations. I think he wanted to 1. protect the kid, make sure he didn't realize what people thought of his old man, and 2. was hoping not to lose his biggest fan and/or, 3. hurt his son in any avoidable way.

"Because most people don't like me. Some of it is absolutely justified. Some of it could be because of their own, personal problems, and maybe a tiny amount of jealousy, but mostly I'm not a very nice guy, which means I get treated badly. I got used to it, when I was little, which made me even colder, which made me act more mean, which made people treat me even worse, which made me hate the world more, which made…well you're smart. You get the picture." For years I had tried everything I could think of to get the guy to open up to me and after slightly more than six months, he was telling this kid everything. I was jealous, which was stupid, because House only told his kid these sorts of things when he had to. "Now, I don't mind, uh...well, not much, but I can't let you get to be like this, because it hurts a lot getting up here, or down here or sideways or—uh, I dunno—some direction."

"Does it hurt now?" The little boy reached his left hand out, gently laying it across is father's cheek. Greg's eyes shifted in the opposite direction, looking away from him. _Yes._ "A lot?" He shook his head. "How much?" Another massive gesture from Dad. Absolutely not. I won't tell you about this. "If you don't wanna tell me, at least talk to Wilson about it, okay?" This time he nodded, but only just a small one.

"I'm not gonna have a total break down and leave you in some group home. I'm okay. Sort of. I'll take good care of you, I promise. I'm here for you, and I always will be."

"But what about you? Who's gonna take care of you?" This happened a lot. The two of them really understood each other. Greg would say, I'll take care of you, and Dave would worry, who would take care of him. "I love you, Dad, and I don't want you to hurt anymore."

"I am already much better now that I was this time last year. I enjoy spending time with you, playing board and card and videogames, driving for a day and half to get to some remote little theme park and ride roller coasters and eating cotton candy 'till they kick us out. We have fun, and we think the same. You're one of the few people I can talk to, and not have to go back and explain my logic every five minutes. You make me smile, and laugh so much that both Kutner and Chase asked if I was on Prozac."

"So you're not sad?" House Junior had a way of getting right down to the point, and he could see through his father's bullshit, understanding exactly what he meant, which was often the opposite of what the guy said.

"Well of course I'm going to feel despondent from time to time, but I can and do feel other stuff. Sometimes I'm happy. Sometimes I'm scared, excited, nervous, sick, silly, or worried, about you, about other stuff. Sometimes when I am feeling bad, I need to have some time to myself, and just wanna sit alone, stare into space, and it wouldn't matter if you had all the answers, at those times, just being in a quiet place is the only thing that keeps me from—getting worse." Greg stopped himself before saying 'that's the only thing that keeps me from blowing my brains out.'

I'd witnessed him in the aforementioned mood, and it was awful to watch. When you see someone you love, sitting, looking at absolutely nothing, unable to speak, react, or even look you in the eyes, all you wanna do is make sure it never happens again, but he was right, nothing helped that. "However, most of the time, if my mood isn't fantastic, you and Jimmy are fully capable of cheering me up, because you guys know exactly what I need. You actually did a lot of that this summer, which made me feel a bit guilty, 'cuz you've got your own problems. Just being a kid is hard enough, without having to take care of your crazy Dad."

"You're not crazy," David and I said very close to the same time. I would have come up with more, but as usual, the kid was quicker than me, and said something smart. "It's just like you're always telling me. Everybody feels bad and needs love and support and junk once in a while." Greg's smile resurfaced; he nodded, and thanked Dave for his insight. A few hours after that, the kid was in bed, asleep—or close to it—House and I sat on the sofa, watching the TV, quietly.

"So, _are_ you okay?" I asked, scooting closer so that I could place my arm around his shoulder. This time I was allowed to touch him. I kissed his hair. House's eyes closed s briefly, and then looked up into my eyes. He didn't make any sort of a response. "It's okay to say no. I won't tell David."

"Are you kidding me? You couldn't hide a hangnail from that kid, let alone something like me feeling like shit. He knows my moods better than I do. I think…Maybe he'd be better off with a real family. I mean it would be Hell at first, I would…I'd basically prove everything he excepts from the world, that we're all gonna leave him one day, but they'd be good to him, understand what a kid needs, treat him decently, and not act like me. He'd get to be a kid, instead of some poor schmuck stuck taking care of his nut-job father."

"You do know what foster care is like, don't you?" I asked, harshly. He looked away. "That's a yes. He's a brilliant kid. You know what it's like to be that smart when you're young and nobody knows how you think, or how to talk to you. Even if he won the lottery and did get a good placement, they wouldn't understand him. He'd grow up having to hide his intelligence, dumb himself down, constantly, and feel bored, tired, and lonely."

"I'm abusing him. That's what this is. I feel like—he gets this," Greg stammered. "He gets this look in his eyes sometimes. I know that look. I've seen it in my own face, and on the face of every other abused kid I've ever seen. He's so…he needs something. I can't give it to him. He would be—I can't. I don't know how to put this into words, which is really hard for me because I always know how to describe whatever I feel, think, even if I can't make other people understand it, but right now even I don't understand it!"

"He gets that look whenever he thinks about his mother, when he misses her. I get the same one, when I think about Amber. I get it, when I see you in this kind of pain. Everybody gets that look. Everybody feels that way once in a while, you attribute it to abuse because it's how you usually see it, but that doesn't mean that you're…" I paused, changing tactics. House didn't believe me and wasn't going to keep saying the same stuff if it didn't work.

I hugged him more tightly for a moment. "Why is everything your fault? If David has a nightmare it's because you can't make him feel secure enough to get over them. If I have a break down and it hurts to be around you because it reminds me of what happened to Amber it means that I hate you and want to hurt you. If a paitent dies because they lied about something or someone on your team screwed up, you should have seen it. You should have known better. If David looks or feels sad, he is that way because you're doing something terrible to him. Do you have any idea how that sounds?"

"Only because you put everything together into one big bundle. And as far as the paitent thingy goes, it is true. I'm the best diagnostician in the world. I should always get stuff. I should always figure it out, and when I don't—even if they hide something important—it's partially my fault because I didn't say "hey I have a crazy idea; it probably won't help but at this point it can't hurt to try. And I don't think that everything bad in Dave's life is my fault," he told me, pained. His artic blue eyes starred harshly into mine. "I know what he—but I'm only making things worse."

"Come with me," I ordered, getting to my feet, and offering him a hand so that he could stand too. "There's something I have to show you, okay?" He shook his head, violently. _No, my leg hurts too much._ "Take an extra pill, and get up. I have to show you something." Begrudgingly he followed me towards the kid's bedroom. "Look at him. Feel something?" His eyes burned a hole into my face. "I know it's a stupid question, but answer it anyway." A solemn nod was the only reply from him. "You love him, right? Okay, so if I were to ask you to go in there, wake him up, and tell him that he has to leave because you're a lousy father, it would hurt you wouldn't it?"

"That's exactly my point, you jackass," he whispered angrily. "I have to do what's best for _him_ not me. Do you really think he's better off with a crippled, irresponsible drug-addict who has to lean on him, than in a happy, safe, normal home?"

"Because there is nobody in the whole world who will ever love or treat David better than you do. He's not normal and no foster parents, therapist, money, or whatever you think he can get someplace else, will change that. You and David are the smartest people I have ever met, significantly more so than anyone else. All parents feel like they aren't good enough, or at least the ones who are any good at it." We had conversations like this one a lot. He didn't have much faith in himself, not to mention the pain, physical and emotional that he was in, and as much as Greg loved his son, needed the boy around, he was a hundred times more terrified that he would do something terrible to the boy, just by the virtue of being himself. He always told me I couldn't say anything to him to change his mind, but I never stopped trying. "You aren't hurting him," I insisted.

"Not yet," was his typical response. I sighed. "Can I just vent for a while? I'm not giving up on him the day before Christmas. Even my—nobody is that coldhearted. I just wish I _knew_. I know everything. I _get_ everything, but this…there's no answer, no right way to be a dad, no instructions, nothing specific enough to help anyway, and I'm," he stopped himself unwilling or unable to finish the sentence._ I think I'm failing. _

"No, you aren't," I swore, a bit too loudly, taking his hand in mine, and leading him back to the den. "You're doing the best you can, same as everybody else. There is no right way to be a parent; you're right about that one. The only way you could be wrong is if you do something unspeakably horrible, and you aren't capable of that. You can barely even hit me." His eyes sifted back towards the bedroom. I knew House would realize his so called father was wrong, that he wasn't worthless, evil, a no-good, pathetic, little bastard who deserved every single bad thing he'd ever experience, one day. One day he might—would—be happy, but we weren't there yet, and this conversation was upsetting the guy. It was pointless hurt him if it wouldn't help in the long run. So I let it go, this time.

"I know how stupid and not like me it sounds, but ever since that first night he slept here, I've felt something for him and it's stronger than anything I have ever felt about anybody else in the world, and I want him to be happy. He's so smart, so funny, so—everything good from me and everything good from his mom. I feel like—I think the kid's perfect…it's not natural."

"You love him, unconditionally," I explained, and even my eyes were a little wet. I felt bad for the guy. His childhood was Hell, as I had often considered, and this parenthood thing was confusing for him, even before David. It was the most confusing thing he'd ever had to deal with, mainly because he'd based his world belief on the idea that love doesn't just come out of nowhere—if it exists at all—and the very foundation of his very universe was cracked. I expected him to respond with, _but that doesn't make sense,_ and we would have had a long, spirited discussion as to whether anyone one human being could truly love another human being, completely ignoring the unconditional thing, because, in his mind, that didn't exist.

"Either that or I'm losing my mind," he finally came up with after about two and a half minutes. _Not much of a comeback, _I thought. "It's more of that irrational emotional nonsense. I just," he paused. "I met him in May, and it's December. That's," he counted it out, even tough we both knew he knew. "About seven months. I can't…how can I possibly feel this strong after such a short amount of time?"

"He's your son," I offered, but he just scoffed at the idea. his comment seemed to be,

'_Doesn't work like that. Just ask my "father.' _"Good point just successfully procreating with a member of the opposite sex doesn't mean you're going to love, cherish, take care of, or even enjoy spending time with the product of conception, but you aren't one of those people who can meet their child and just say, 'eh, whatever, let him go live some place else. I don't feel like being responsible for a little person for the next 10 or 12 years.'" Greg lay down, closed his eyes, pulling the covers up around himself, and pretended to be asleep, the ultimate; I don't want to talk about this anymore gesture.

Maybe it would have been better if I had just let it go, I think, but something inside of me wouldn't allow my mind to end this conversation. "David is a special kid, he's brilliant, and he needs just as much attention as a kid with an IQ of 60. He will never be normal, no matter how he grows up, no matter how well his parents function, no matter where he lives, or how fantastically happy a childhood he has. People who are as smart as you and him can't be normal, and trying to force him into that life is unfair, and unimaginably cruel. He doesn't have to grow up to hurt the way you do. He won't necessarily be miserable, just from being around you.

"Go ahead, smirk, but I have proof that you aren't as big of an influence of people as you think. Look around you. There are dozens of people who come into contact with you everyday, paitents, other doctors, me, Cuddy, your teams, and I say teams, because Foreman, Chase, and Cameron are all still very much a part of your life, and they aren't completely miserable and screwed up. At least, no more than they were before you came into their lives."

"But I'm not raising any of them, 'sept maybe Kutner, but that's a whole other story, and yeah, I'm great with kids, for about five minutes. Then I get annoyed," he said, and instantly look horrified. "I didn't mean…I don't feel that way with Dave. I like my son. He gets me." Ordinarily if we were arguing about something (anything) House didn't stop talking unless he had proved his point beyond a shadow of a doubt or until I was so tired of listening I'd pretend to agree just to get the guy to shut up. When he got quiet it meant he didn't want to admit to whatever it was he was thinking. This was bothering him way more than he was willing to admit.

"And that's bad because…you're evil and the only way anyone could possibly understand you is if they're becoming…you? If their turning evil too?" Greg had opened is eyes again, but wouldn't look at me. I was right. "That sweet, wonderful, sensitive little guy over in the next room? You think that, that boy is the same as you, because he doesn't hate you?" He didn't have to nod; we both knew I had gotten to the truth. "Never gonna happen."

"But you don't know that!" he shouted, then looked ashamed of himself, and curled up on his side, looking away from me. "I don't know what he's gonna be like in ten years, or in twenty years, or next month."

"You're worried about him, that's natural. All of this is new for you. I understand that. You aren't used to all these complicated feelings, and emotions. Parenthood takes a lot, and most of the people doing it don't know what they're doing. If kids came with instruction manuals, there'd be virtually no need for therapists. And I know, I'm saying a lot of the same stuff over and over and over again, but clearly you either aren't listening or don't believe me. So I'm gonna have to keep on saying it until you do. David is strong, and smart, and sweet, and you have nothing to worry about. You're doing just fine."

"Yeah I'm sure that's what Eric Harris's parents told themselves the day before he shot up his high school."

"Good God, Greg! Are you just incapable of thinking positively, of being happy? Is that what the problem is? You don't understand how anyone can feel differently than you do, and so you really believe he's going to turn out to be miserable because you think there's nothing else out there." He tried to laugh at my idea, but I could tell I'd definitely gotten close, or gotten it completely right. "You're a good father."

"Whatever," he whispered, tiredly, and pulled the covers up around his shoulders. I wrapped my arms around his body, carefully, and when he didn't' pull away, pressed my face into his shoulder, so I could whisper in his ear.

"I know it hurts, in here," I said, placing my palm over his heart. "But that will get better. For you and for Dave. It's like you told him, just over the last couple of months you've already gotten better. And don't tell me you were lying. I know it's true, because I've been watching you lately. You smile more, laugh a little, and you're relaxed. I haven't seen you like this since…well ever." I kissed the top of his head, and Greg sighed, his eyelids fluttering.

"Fine, I'm not 100% evil, and probably won't completely ruin his life. Can I go to sleep now?" I nodded, and kissed him again. "Everything's going to be alright," I promised, switched off the light, and went to sleep, smiling, and feeling like were all in a good place. Maybe what I'd said to House wasn't just another one of my empty promises. Maybe we really could be alright after all.


	6. Happy Christmas

AN: sorry it took so long to get the Christmas story up. Who knew grad school was so much work? Also the h key on my laptop doesn't work, so pardon any missing Hs.

"I had a good life before you came  
I had my friends and my freedom  
I had my name  
Still there was sorrow and emptiness  
'Til you made me glad  
Oh, in this love I found strength never knew I had  
And this love (this love, this love) is like nothing I have ever known." Don Henley.

"Wake up, Dad! Dad, it's Christmas," Dave cheered, breaking trough my (and very likely House's) sleeping mind, and pulling me out of a dream I couldn't really remember. I opened my eyes to see Greg squinting against the bright morning sunshine, moaning, and rolling onto his side tiredly.

"I thought I told you to wait until at least 8:30 before waking me up," he grumbled, eyes still half-closed, hands reaching under the covers to massage his leg. David was smiling, still dressed in PJs, his hair sticking up, in a few places. The apartment smelled like sugar cookies—we baked the night before with Blythe—and pine.

"I did. It's 8:47," the boy retorted. Always suspicious, his father slowly sat up, checked the clock on the wall, as well as his watch. The boy smiled at him, sweet and innocent. "So can I open my presents yet, or not?" House sucked in a deep breath of air. "Did I do something wrong?' he said manipulatively. The kid was smart enough to know that his grandmother would really like to be part of Christmas morning and that his dad was hesitating to figure out a way to distract him until she arrived. I just couldn't tell if Dad was aware of his knowledge on this particular subject.

"I think you should wait until my mom gets here. Why don't you go help Jimmy get started on breakfast, so it can be ready when she wakes up and drives over, okay?" The boy, nodded following me happily. Greg stood up, carefully, and made his way across the room. I watched as he surveyed the items under the tree. "Hey, Jimmy? What's that?" He jerked his chin in the direction of a pile of gift-wrapped packages.

"Well I don't know, but if I had to guess I'd saythat they were probably Christmas presents, but like I said, can't really see them from all the way over here." Eyes rolled back into his head so far I thought they might be lost forever.

"I know that, moron. But these weren't here last night when I went to—right before I went to bed. What I wanna know is, how did they get here?" I smiled to myself, but he wasn't amused.

"Maybe Santa left them." I couldn't see his face, but I'm pretty same way as he had with my first comment. Dave stared up at me, intrigued. House didn't say _there's no such thing as Santa Clause_, even though we were all aware of this fact.

"I saw you putting those out last night, while my dad was sleeping," he explained. "I got up to use the bathroom. I wasn't spying." He smiled, gently. "I won't tell if you wanna keep it a secret, but he'll figure it out pretty fast." In less than an hour we had breakfast on the table, House's mother had arrived, and the younger of the House boys was practically bouncing off the walls, and the older one was…well pretty close to his son's position.

"I think it might be a good idea to let these two open at least a couple of their presents before we eat," she suggested. Greg rolled his eyes some more, but David bounded across the room, plopping himself down in front of the tree.

"Come on, Dad. This is the best part of the whole day," he announced. "Here, this is the one I got for you." David held up a neatly wrapped square box, covered in the Sunday comic section of the paper, a handmade card on top. "Please?" He used baby talk for that last word. Greg knew he was being manipulated this time, but walked across the room anyway, and sat down on a chair beside his son. He took the present, unwrapping it, carefully, which seemed a bit odd—he later explained that David had worked so hard, he didn't want to destroy all of it—to discover a scrapbook made by the kid, filled mostly with pictures of him, Greg, me (both with and without House) and him and his dad, as well as photos David had taken of some of his father's favorite things, and even a few articles and pictures he'd cut out of medical, soap opera, and music magazines.

"This is really nice; thanks Little Man. I know I always talk about you going into medicine and being a doctor like me, but you're really good at taking pictures. Maybe you should be a photographer, like your mom."

"Or I could be a doctor who takes pictures, like, as a hobby. I like playing the diagnosis game with you. It's a lot of fun, even more than paying soccer or going to the movies or anything."

"We've got another ten years before you even go to college. I don't—if you wanna go to med school that's great. If you wanna be a lawyer, or a black jack dealer, or anything, that's okay too. I'll always be proud of you, as long as you do your best."

"How come you're always tellin' me stuff like that?" the boy asked, is eyes wide and questioning. House ran a hand through his hair, slightly on edge, but not actually scared or in pain.

"Because I know what it feels like to be pushed into—to be forced to do stuff you don't wanna do, even little things. So, I'm just trying to make sure that I never do that to you. I want you to have all the—I know how stupid and lame it might sound—but I want you to have all the good stuff in the whole world. It's hard to be a kid, hard to know exactly how grownups feel, how anyone feels, if they don't tell you." David nodded, and then opened the card from one of the presents his dad had given him, and smiled. He unwrapped the gift, looked inside the box, and beamed up at us.

"It's perfect, Dad, thanks!" he exclaimed, holding it up for everyone to see. Greg had gotten his son a pair of scrub pants and a scrub-top with his name stitched into the pocket, _Dr. David House_.

"Now those are just pajamas. No pressure or anything. It was between those and these ones with rocket ships and stars and stuff on them, which I figured you might not like as much." The boy nodded happily, holding the pajamas up to see if they fit.

"Can I wear 'em to breakfast?" he asked. Greg nodded, and the kid ran off, jammies in hand. The three adults went into the kitchen to set the table. The meal was pretty normal, lots of laughs, jokes, funny stories, and House and his son still seemed closer than I'd seen him get with anybody else. Maybe it was genetics. Maybe it's because they spent three months with nothing except each other, each one going through a separate Hell. Maybe it was because neither wanted the other to feel alone. Maybe it was something else that I couldn't completely understand, but whatever the reason; they had a difficult time socializing—even with me and Blythe—in group settings. The House boys would often talk to each other without including those around them. They never talked about me, and I knew that if I were to voice an opinion on the subject of discussion they wouldn't ignore me—I had tried it before, and was instantly included—but mostly I didn't bother because it was so interesting to watch them.

"David, what are you learning about in school right now?" Grandma asked, at one point. House's eyes got huge, as if he were scared or worried about something, nervous his son might say something obnoxious and sarcastic, like maybe _noting, I'm on vacation. Duh. _He thought the kid's sarcasm was hilarious—in some situations—but was also terrified as to how people would react to this, especially is mother.

"My school is awesome. We only have a handful of students and so we each get to study whatever we want. Right before break I finished a unit on astronomy, and Ancient Civilizations. I got to write a play about Alexander the Great, and a bunch of us put it on in front of the parents. When I go back I start algebra, and we also have to do a science fair project. I'm still not sure what I'm going to do for that one." Greg quickly ran a hand across his forehead, but I was the only one who saw.

"Maybe your dad can give you some ideas. When Greg was a little boy he did a science fair project, and won first prize out of the whole school, and most of the—no all—of the other students were much, much older than him."

"I was a lot older than Dave is now, and even though I can supervise him, my project was a little bit dangerous. His school put regulations on what they can and can't do, so even if I was comfortable with the idea, he can't use fire."

"You lit something on fire?" David asked, less shocked that you would have expected in any other situation, from anybody else.

"I had to use a Bunsen burner to heat the liquids to separate them," Greg defended. "I had the chemistry teacher mix a bunch of different substances, liquids, and solids, into a jar, and I had to separate and identify all of them. A lot of high schools do that these, as a general experiment, but I—at the time—they were impressed, especially since I hadn't spent a year learning about the different ingredients. I still think I only own 'cuz I was six years younger than the other applicants, and not because it was anything that great."

"Did anybody else do something new and completely unheard of," the little boy prodded, "or did they just make baking soda volcanoes and stupid stuff like that?" Greg shrugged, but I think we all knew the answer. It was weird to see him being modest, and I realized why almost as soon as I started to think about it. "Dad, you did a great thing. That was a really cool project. I sort of wanna try it myself."

House's 'father' never once told the little boy he'd done a good job, and despite his attempts to prove otherwise, he still felt worthless from time to time. He had to act all superior and self-centered and stuck up, but he didn't believe all of his own hype. He knew how smart he was. He knew that he knew a lot more than pretty much every person on the planet. He was aware that he had a far better memory than the people he worked with, and played attention to details more than them. He knew how brilliant he was, but he was still very much a child, and like any child he needed to positive reinforcement, he needed to be told he had done well when he had. He couldn't let people know any of this, of House. He knew people would treat him differently, and hated that idea. He didn't much like his life—except for David—but pity was way worse, in his mind, than the way he was talked to and treated now.

"I'm alright. You don't have to do that, but, uh—whatever. I'm sure we can come up with something you'll really like. I've actually been thinking about this a lot because I really enjoy this stuff. It's fun." David smiled, popping a bit of pancake into his mouth.

"I wanna...I want you to help me with my project. We'll have fun. You're smart enough that we can do something really cool lie, I dunno. Maybe we can do something on the placebo effect."

"I think they also have a rule against experimenting on people, or animals."

"Nuh uh, Tommy Finnegan gave a bunch of kids different tests after they studied listening to music, watching TV, and in science. He proved that listening to music—of any kind—helps you concentrate."

"But those people knew they were being experimented on. I don't think your teacher wouldn't be okay with you giving drugs to your classmate."

"I wasn't gonna do it to kids at school. They're too smart to fall for that. I was gonna give Susan sugar pills and tell her they were special vitamins that enhance brain power."

"You saw that on a TV show," Greg explained, chuckling, gently. "And that's immoral." He was the last person to tell David not to experiment on people, but often explained that he didn't want the boy to be like him. "But you could build something," he suggested. "Or do a Myth Buster's sort of thing."

"Like what?"

"Hmm." House considered this for a while. "What if you could test to see if soda pop really ruins your teeth, or if they would be okay as long as you brush and rinse with mouthwash twice a day?" David looked into his eyes intrigued. "We've still got that tooth you lost last week, and the other one's pretty loose. We submerge one in a Petri dish of soda, and leave the control group in an empty dish. Twice a day take them both out, brush the teeth, put them in a cup of mouthwash and swirl, and chart the decay or lack their of on each tooth."

"Oh, I like that one! Do you really think it'll work? I mean, what you think is gonna happen?" he asked, putting his fork and knife down, dabbing his face with a napkin. Greg nodded. "I would definitely win if I proved that soda doesn't cause tooth rot!"

"Probably even get a reward of some kind from whatever company whose product you use." David immediately went to work on his left front incisor, twisting and pulling at it. "Don't hurt yourself, okay? And not at the table. Some people think it's gross."

We finished breakfast and moved to the den to open the rest of our presents. On Christmas Eve, David and Greg had worked hard, organizing the presents, laying them out in four separate piles, one for each person, and then stacked them, according to side, shape, and delicacy. Each of us sat beside our piles, Greg in a chair, his leg propped up, and went through our presents, one at a time.

David got me and Blythe pictures, in hand-decorated frames, of the four of us (for Grandma) taken over Thanksgiving, and the three of us (for me). I got the kid some science fiction novels and a few comic books. David got a sweater from Blythe—she knitted it in his favorite colors, stitching the image of a dinosaur with a Santa hat on the front—along with a few more action figures, and a Justice League DVD box set. His dad gave him a copy of Gray's Anatomy, a book filled with a collection of brainteasers, three model making kits, and two tropical fish that came in a nice tank, with colorful gravel, and a little castle along the bottom. Greg got a couple Gameboy cartridges form me and an iTunes gift card.

Finally, his mother handed him an old, dirty, and tattered shoe box, the worn, white cardboard now a yellowish-brown. It had the words _Property of Greg house_ written on it, and was covered in dirt stains.

"When you and I were staying with my mother, you kept a journal, and wrote in it almost every night. I was able to get you a few toys, a stuffed animal. You went to a good school, took advanced classes, made a few friends, and had a very nice party for your 7th birthday. You were so happy then. Right before we moved back in with—you buried this in the backyard. You told me it was a time capsule, but I knew you didn't want…the things to get taken away. So you took all of your favorite things, stuffed them in a box, and hid it. When she died, Sarah and I went to clean out her place and I—we were packing everything up when I remembered the time capsule. So, I dug it up, and hid it someplace John wouldn't be able to find it. I forgot the box was even there, which is why I didn't give it to you sooner."

Greg nodded, gently pressing at the pieces of the box. They seemed so fragile, so old. It gave off a slight, musty odor, like an old book. Greg seemed unsure as to whether or not he should actually open it. His left leg tapped nervously, fingers pressing against the lid. I could practically hear is heart racing from across the room, but I didn't say anything. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, House pulled at the lid of the shoe box, and peered inside. It contained a small notebook, with yellowed pages, a photograph of him, some friends, his grandmother, and Blythe all crowded around a kitchen table, young House leaning over a giant, chocolate cake. There was also a stuffed, dull-green frog toy, who's filling had long since dried out and pushed towards the center, leaving Mr. Frog's arms, legs, and head limp. Next to that was an ancient looking Superman action figure in fairly decent condition.

"I remember this stuff. I hid the journal, even though I wanted to bright it with me, because somethings I really, really, really needed o talk about—stuff and— that is. Nevermind," he said, putting the notebook away, and picking up his limp frog. E smiled weakly.

"You were afraid to tell me what you were thinking about, how you felt, but wring those things down, gave you the freedom to talk about your feelings without having to worry who heard them, right?" Grandma asked in the exact same way I'd heard House say to someone who clearly didn't want to talk about something and get right down to the truth. He nodded. "Getting those things out, made it hurt less, and you didn't want to give that up but you were also afraid that your—that someone would find it, find out how you felt, tat you let those feeling out, and then…" She let her voice trail off. They both knew what would have happened if John House were to find his sons private journal and read what was inside.

"Do you like it?" she asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. Greg made a sound like, _huh?_ "You just said, you remember those things, but did you want them? Do you like it? Or would we be better off if I had left your time capsule in a corner of the basement?"

"No, it's nice. Probably would have liked it more when I was eight, but…I—that wasn't possible. Guess we just—forget it. Thanks. That was nice. I'm not used to all this stuff yet. I'll be a lot more fun to hang out with, in a couple of years. Promise." House's mother wrapped her arms around his body, tightly, and pulled him as close to her as she could.

"There is nothing wrong with _you_," Blythe insisted, patting him on the arm, and rubbing his back. "Everybody has problems. Everybody has pain. You're not that different. Except for how intelligent you are, you are exactly the same as everybody else."

"No, I'm not. I hate people. All of them. Well, I like you and Jimmy, and I love the kid, but other than that, I just don't…care. About anybody. And I know what you're doing. I don't wanna have this conversation in front of my kid. He shouldn't have to hear about this."

"Then let's go in the other room. Please, Greg, I know how important this is." Her smile had faded, and her eyes were now dark, sad, and cold. She looked so much like him, it was amazing.

"I can take Dave somewhere," I suggested, but Greg's face went pale. "Or I can stay here with you while he goes and hangs out in his room for a little while."

"I don't wanna talk about it, period. I know exactly what's going to happen. My mom is gonna say something about how she should have done something, that she's my mother, should have protected me. I'll say 'you were just as scared of him as I was,' or something. I'll try to reassure you," he explained, turning his attention from me to his mom. "Then you're gonna wanna know exactly what he did, how often, when, and where, and I don't wanna answer those questions so either I won't, or I'll do it in a rude or mean way. Then, you'll feel bad and I'm gonna feel bad for hurting you and we're gonna be worse off than we were before…"

"We can't pretend that nothing ever happened. You have to talk about this." He grunted trying to pull away from her hug. "I can see how much pain you're in, and this is clearly upsetting you."

"Of course it's upsetting. I don't want to talk to my _mommy _about being, about the crap he put me through. Besides, I do talk about it. I tell Jimmy stuff all the time, and it's not nearly as humiliating, or weird with him. You're my mom. You were there. I just, I don't want you to see me as a terrified four-year-old, with him—I don't want you picturing it."

"I'm already picturing what he did to you. You're fath—John was not exactly the type to skimp on the details. He told me so many horrible things, so clearly, that I couldn't sleep for weeks. I already know where, and when, and how often. What he couldn't tell me was how my child is doing, or if there is any way for me to help him. I don't know if you're happy, or terrified, or if you're so completely and utterly miserable that you can't feel anything else. And I don't know why you never said anything."

"David, I know you're not eavesdropping, but I'd rather not talk about this with you around. It's okay, I just," Dave stood up, hugged is dad, and looked up at him, smiling a little.

"It's okay, Dad. I wanted to go watch some of my new DVDs anyway. It's okay right?' he asked. Greg nodded, forcing himself to smile weakly. David hugged him again, and went to his room, with his new games.

"When he first started to…he told me it wouldn't matter if I talked, if I told. You wouldn't believe me, he said. I was only…it didn't take long for me to figure out he was lying. One night he was sitting on the edge of my bed, and I think, I'm not sure exactly how old I was. Maybe when we were living in China. Not that it matters. I remember he was sitting there, unbuttoning the top of his pajamas, and I was crying, and he—I said, 'Get outta here or I'm gonna scream! I'm gonna tell.' He just laughed. 'Now why would a supposedly smart little boy like you say something so stupid?' It took all my courage but I was able to say, "Mommy will believe me.' He looked me over carefully and said, 'you're right. I only told you that she wouldn't before, to protect you.'

"He stared—he was, he had me in his—I was…he," House stammered. "Then he smiled, and said, 'You're right. Your mother will believe anything you tell her, as long as it's true, and if you tell her, your mom is going to get very angry. She's probably going to try and, get rid of me, but she doesn't like guns, and she's not very strong. If she tries to shoot, or, stab, or coke me, I'll be able to get the weapon away from her, and frankly…If I tell the police that somebody broke in and killed her, it won't matter what you say. They'll still believe my story. From then on, Greggy, it's just you and me. There'll be nobody to let you get off scot-free when you're bad, nobody to sneak you food in the middle of the night when you were supposed to go to bed without supper. No more baby toys. No more," House stopped mid-sentence, rubbing his chin, artic eyes practically melting. He was on the verge of tears, squeezing his eyes shut to keep from crying. "He might have been lying about everything else, but not that. I know it. I had to. And then, after I grew up, didn't see any point."

"You were my son, and he was doing unimaginably horrible, disgusting, terrible, terrible things to you. That bastard didn't stand a chance. All animals know that you don't mess with a baby bear, unless you're prepared to take on the momma, and I was…I would have saved you. I would have done anything," she swore, kissing the top of her son's hair. "He wasn't lying, just wrong."

"Can we talk about something else?" he begged. Blythe said, of course, and I brought David back to the den. The three of us played cards—House quiet at first, putting on a brave front for the kid, but relaxing after a few perfect jokes from the kid—while Grandma watched happily. Later she joined in a game of Scrabble. We ordered in Chinese food for dinner, and sat around the table laughing, talking, sharing stories, and stuff. I could tell that House's mom wanted to discuss things more, while it was the last thing in the world _he_ wanted, and she could sense it too. So she let him have some more time to calm down from their previous conversation, but she still had questions that desperately needed answer.

After David had gone to sleep they sat together on the sofa and Greg behaved, to the extent that he was capable, while she told him what she needed to know, and he answered as well as he could. Most of the things she wanted to know were the same things House had originally thought. She wanted to know where, when, and how often he was hurt, and in which ways—he refused to go into specifics about this one—as well as asking about if Greg had ever attempted to tell anyone (despite John's threats) and he spoke honestly. "He didn't, I think maybe he wanted to get caught. That's why he did—why he didn't care where we were, at home, in the car, on those camping trips. It happened a lot, I stopped keeping track after, and I stopped keeping track a long time ago.

"When we were staying with Oma, the year I was seven. After a couple of months, a lot of months, I realized that I could tell you, and he wouldn't be able to—I figured it out one night. I was up late because I couldn't sleep, but the idea of being safe, okay, finally, it just hit me, all of the sudden. I knew I was alright. I went to bed, fell asleep right away. I was okay. I was happy, sort of. I woke up the next morning, and went downstairs, and I had this…he was sitting at the table." The only question to really surprise me and Greg was one I knew the answer to, but apparently she didn't.

"When did he start to," she asked, her voice trembling. "I mean, when did you—when did he first…" I can't imagine more difficult and painful words for a mother to try and speak. "I only ask because I thought I knew him so well, and he lied to me for all those years, and I never knew. I never knew and now, I have to know. When I could have…if I could have? He told me he started to have these feelings that he couldn't control. John told me they started when you were three-years-old, but that he didn't let himself act on them right away. He claims, he fought against them until you were six, but after all he'd told me, after everything he said, I started to doubt every word out of his mouth." _It's a good thing, _I thought, _because he was lying, even on his deathbed, that asshole tried to make himself look less evil._

"He wasn't lying about that one. He did wait," Greg attempted to tell her, not because it was the truth, but he didn't want to hurt his mother. In his mind, telling her his father didn't touch him until he was six, having her believe a lie, was better than her knowing the truth. I couldn't understand that, because it wasn't that huge of a difference. Four-years-old, six-years-old, House never had a chance.

"Don't you start lying to me too, Greg," she ordered, and hugged him again. He sat, uncomfortably, trying not to act like himself, trying to be what he thought she would want him to be.

"I don't wanna do this anymore!" He pulled away. "Don't—I can't. I can't do it. I just, can't. Obviously you know I did that because the truth is really, really bad. Either that or because I can't be trusted either."

Blythe leaned over and whispered something in her son's ear, and while I'm not completely sure what it was I can assume it must have been something along the lines of, "that's not true," because after this happened, he was slightly more willing to discuss what happened.

"I'm not 100% positive about the year, or how old I was, but I remember it was Christmas Eve. I wasn't allowed to eat dinner, which usually wasn't that bad, but I hadn't eaten breakfast that day either. So, I was pretty hungry, and it wasn't the first time I'd done this, but. Sometimes I tried to sneak downstairs to get food, after everybody had gone to sleep but he was there, waiting for me. He probably set the whole thing up, and would have sat in that stupid armchair all night long until I came down. Da—he said I was there, going to try and open my present early, and that if I was so excited…I forget what he said exactly, but I tried to tell him what I was really doing, but he didn't believe me, or didn't care, or like I said the whole thing was a setup. Doesn't really matter. I guess. He took me upstairs, holding my body under one arm, and the present under the other. Made me open it up. I got a big, red fire truck. Then, he picked it up and threw it down on the floor, over and over, smashing it into little, itty, bitty pieces. I—that's about when he first. Don't make me finish that sentence."

"You were four-years-old, and I know you remember that, but I also know you're trying to spare my feelings. You're going to tell me that what happened wasn't my fault, there's nothing I could have done, but I'm still sorry. I'm sorry you were hurt. I'm sorry I didn't protect you. I'm sorry I wasn't paying close enough attention. I'm sorry for your pain, and your sadness, and I'm sorry you felt the need to hide this from m me for so long."

"I was a grown up. I was safe. There was no reason to break up your marriage because he treated me like shit when I was growing up."

"I was living with a child molester. And you were never safe. Every time I saw you, every time we came for a visit, every telephone call, I could see it in your eyes, or hear it in your voice. You were still terrified of him, even three years ago. You didn't have to tell, but I wish you had."

"Fine, whatever. Look, Mom, it doesn't really matter. We didn't—it's too late to be arguing about this. Hindsight being 20-20 and all, I can list at least a hundred things I did in my life that I shouldn't have, or things I didn't and should of, and I'm only talking about the really huge, life alerting things, but—I was scared of him, as an adult. I think mostly I was trying to avoid getting hurt more than anything else." Blythe nodded, hugging her son again, and despite his initial complaints, I think Greg was okay with it this time.

"I love you, sweetie. Everything is going to be alright. You are going to feel better one day. I can already see a change in your behavior and even here," she explained, laying a hand on his cheek. "You're already better, and nothing is ever perfect, but you won't always hurt all the time. I promise."

"Good to know," House smirked, but we both knew he actually meant it. He was glad to know what was going on. Even after all these months with David, and the lessening pain in his heart, and leg, he was still terrified that he would never ever be okay, but now, he was starting to think that maybe it was possible. Maybe happy wasn't a fairy tale, something unobtainable. Maybe he really could be okay. _Whatever that means, _he'd have said if I stated these thoughts out loud.


	7. Good Dad

AN: This chapter goes with the episode _Big Baby_; a chapter for _The Greater Good _will follow sometime this week or next.

"You should probably talk to Cuddy again," I told House, as we climbed into my car on our way home. He shot me an annoyed look. "Just because you bonded instantly with David doesn't mean she's a monster for not feeling the same way." He had been flip-flopping on her parenting abilities ever since she decided to try in vetro. Of course, before now, she'd never actually had a child, but Cuddy always wanted a baby, and newborns are tough. I think even he knew that. Thinking about this stuff, waiting for a response, pulling out of the parking lot, I noticed the smell for the first time. It was sour, milky, but subtle. "What is that?" His smile seemed to be taunting me obnoxiously. _I know something you don't know_. "And what's up with _that?_"

"Cuddy's kid projectile vomited all over me. I tried to wipe it off, but…guess I missed a spot," he admitted. "I already talked to her. Cuddy decided to keep it. Uh. Her. At this point don't think it makes much of a difference. No hair, unable to keep down food, no breasts, can't talk, barely thinks. She's like a hairless puppy. But even those can control when they make pee-pee. Cuddy probably only puts it in all that pink crap so people won't think it's a boy."

"She threw up on you?" I asked, unable to hide the small smile forming on my lips. He nodded. "And you didn't throw the kid into a wall?" I couldn't see him exactly, but knew the man was most likely giving me another look. "Sorry, it's just that, I've seen you yell at paitents…never mind. I know you'd never hit a kid."

"No, I wouldn't." He pouted. "Besides, David's easy. He's eight. He's brilliant. He's funny. He's cool. The kid is me, version 2.0." This got us both laughing. I considered mentioning to Greg that I didn't think he needed improvement, but figured he would only roll his eyes or call me an idiot or something. So I just squeezed his hand, gently, ignored the smell, and drove us home. House said hello to his son and raced to the bathroom, ripping off his clothes, and hopping into the shower. I followed him, and stood, watching him through the steam. "You joining me or not?" he asked. I smiled, but didn't move. There were a million different things I could have said, but he just laughed. "Come on, I can see how much you want it. Might as well be wearing spandex for all the good your pants are doing you."

"What about the kid"? I wondered, mildly nervous. We hadn't been nearly as active in our sex life as I would have liked, or as much as he would have liked. Between his chasing after David all day long, and his concern that the kid will hear or see us, and my emotional state, it just didn't happen.

"I told him I needed a shower so he won't be coming in here until the water turns off." I nodded, already working on my belt, and slacks. "Just gotta finish before it turns to ice."

"Are you sure you're okay with this? I mean we were just talking about kids, and babies, and parents, and…" He made a small, soft sound. I stopped, watching his face. "Because we don't have to do anything unless you want this." Greg told me to shut up and get in.

"If I didn't wanna have sex I would of made you stay in the other room while I was scrubbing the smell of baby vomit off of my neck."

"That's fantastic foreplay there, Greg. Wonderful job, but I think you should know that dirty talk has nothing to do with being physically dirty, right?" I asked, stepping onto the tile beside him. Greg placed one finger over my lips, then lowered his hand to my shoulder, and pushed down, pressing me to my knees, in front of his hard cock. He squeezed the safety bar with one hand, the other palm pressed against the sliding door, head tilted back, eyes shut, mouth as close to a smile as he ever got, making more soft moaning sounds wile I sucked him off.

Later, as we washed the last suds off of our bodies the water went from lukewarm to freezing cold.

"Mother fucker!" he shouted, attempting to jump out of its way.

"Sorry. I've got it. See, no more cold. You're okay. It's alright." If he were physically capable, I'm fairly certain that Greg would have kicked me. Instead he had to settle for a shove and an angry stare. _Don't be a moron._ "Fine, world sucks and I'm gonna beat the crap out of you, while holding your body under the icy cold shower spray." House smiled slightly—because he knew I'd never do it—grabbing a pale blue bathrobe and pulling it on. Back in the den, David raced over to us, excited, that happy, silly, over-egger Christmas morning look on his face.

"Can we have a pajama party?" he asked. "I know how silly it is, but it's after school, and after work, and you gotta put clothes on anyway," the kid explained. Greg laughed, patting him on the back, and he nodded.

"Sure, Dave sounds like fun." It was so weird to see him with the kid, and know that he was great with his son right off the bat when he never wanted kids, and Lisa—who would like nothing more than to be a momma—was awkward with her daughter, even willing to give the baby up. "Still think I should call the big boss lady?" he asked, pulling a t-shirt over his head, hair still slightly wet, fingers and toes all pruned and wrinkly.

"Maybe we should have her over for dinner tomorrow or the next day. Now, if—the baby threw up on you, that means you had to have been close to her at the time, right?" he nodded, sadly.

"Cuddy told me to hold the thing. She said I should. Then, she laughed when it blew chunks on my favorite shirt. Said it was cute," he smirked. I smiled gently, touching his hair. "Girl probably did it on purpose."

"Which one?" I asked, "Lisa or the baby?" This—of course—got a huge reaction out of the guy. He laughed, and pushed my hand away from him. "How—what did you think? Of the baby."

"I told you. At this point, kid's just a big fat bug. Can't even eat that crap they put in jars with picture of a baby on the front. Think they ever get scared of that?" I gave a slight chuckle to let him know I appreciated the joke so he'd move on to his real thought. "I dunno. Sometimes think about how things would have been if David had been 8 months old. Don't know what I would of done. When_ I _was. I can sort or remember stuff, and think it may have happened when I was really young, like nine or ten months. I—yellow wallpaper, that baby music stuff. I'm in a bed, or a crib maybe, just woke up. I think. The music—I'm actually thinking about this now, music was a mobile—I called for my mom. She comes in, picks me up, and says, I think I made the last part up. Anyway. Don't really remember that room, 'sept for that and one more. Seen one picture of the room, we only lived there until I was one.

"Linda aid the kid started talking at five months, just a word or two here and there, full sentences by 10, walking at 9 months, reading just before his third birthday. Woulda sucked at it at first, but I also missed out on so much. I dunno. Sometimes I think Lionel Damer was a better father than I ever could be." I grabbed his hands and held him close, hugging him, rubbing and patting his back. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Please, tell me you don't believe that one?" I begged, kissing the top of his head. "Please? Because if you don't believe you can do a better job than the guy raised a cannibalistic serial killer, than you need more help than I can give you."

"I know he's not gonna be the next Hannibal Lecter, but…just _hate_ the idea tat he might grow up to be like, well—me." He was ashamed of this, in pain, and sad, and the kid was about to race in. I only had a minute, two tops.

"You say that all the time, but I can't help. House, he's alright. David is happy. He's gonna be just fine. You'll see." Greg sighed, shaking his head, droplets spraying off his hair. Dave came padding out of his room, wearing his scrubs and a pair of Cars slippers. He'd been wearing those pajamas every night since Christmas.

"Is there something wrong, Dad?" he asked, gently. Greg shook his head again. "You guys know I can hear half the stuff you were saying from my room, right? You said—you were really worried about me. Think that some how bring with you is gonna mess me up."

"You're more and more like me everyday," House answered.

"You say that like it's a bad thing. You're smart, funny, sarcastic, and cool. You're one of the best doctors on the whole planet, and I'm probably gonna win the science fair because of your awesome idea," David insisted, touching his father's face gently. "And you and mom loved me more than anybody else ever could. If she was the only one raising me and I'd never ever met you, I'd think I was a freak. I never knew people could think like we do. Yeah, I get scared sometimes, 'cuz of what happened to my mom, but I don't have nearly as many nightmares, and I know that they aren't real, and I get to bed a lot faster afterwards."

"Yeah? Well, I'm glad to hear it, Pal." He smiled, best as he could. "Jimmy and I were talking about Dr. Cuddy's baby. She's been having a tough time, and I was kind of mean to her, but—uh—everything is alight now. Wilson thinks we should have her over for diner. What do you think about that?" David said he didn't mind. Then the three of sat at the kitchen table, first finishing his math homework, ate dinner—macaroni and cheese from scratch—then David brushed his teeth, and documented them. Both teeth were dried up, hard, and didn't really look like teeth anymore. The one in the soda had a slightly yellowish tint, but was still in tact, no cavities, nothing.

"I just thought of something that might be considered a mistake," David explained, looking up from his notebook. "I might—these teeth fell out. They're pretty much dead. It's not the same as teeth in somebody's head. I don't know if they can even get a cavity."

"They can decay as much as a living tooth. That's why most people don't keep these tings," he explained, and while it sounded true I wasn't 100% positive. House did that sometimes, stated something as a fact even if he wasn't sure. David nodded, and finished his report for the day, put everything away, sat on the sofa with us for an hour of TV, and went to bed. I tried to get Greg to talk about his parenting abilities again, but he refused, preferring instead to pull the covers up around his shoulders and pretend to be asleep.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Lisa came over Saturday afternoon, wit the baby, and made fun of House because he was hesitant to pick her up. Greg sat down beside the little girl on the floor, then asked how long it had been since she had last had anything to eat.

"An hour and a half," she explained. "I was about to give her another bottle. _You_ can do it if you'd like." He didn't respond, didn't make fun of her, wasn't crude or disgusting; he just picked up the baby, holding it as far away from his body as his arms would allow. "Thank you for not being a total a—jerk about this. It was bad enough not connecting her, knowing that you were a better parent than me without you rubbing it in my face.

"I don't think it's really a fair comparison. David's eight, and brilliant, and he thinks exactly like me. The talking is probably the most helpful. For like, three and a half weeks after—the funeral," he paused before those words, as if afraid to mention the fact that Dave's mom was dead in front of the kid. It was the best he could do to be sympathetic. It was sweet. Sort of. "Didn't say a word. I never—I had no idea what he was doing, if he needed something, if I was being an asshole, if I could do anything. Honestly, I think the people who write parenting books are full of it. I read everything on kids and grief and losing a parent, and I couldn't—none of it worked. Nothing they suggested helped either of us." Lisa looked up at both of them, sweetly, taking the baby back from a noticeably uncomfortable House, and bouncing Rachel on her knee. "And you're giving me way too much credit.

"I tried to give Dave back twice. His mom was sick, and going through chemo, but I had no doubt in my mind that I was doing the right thing. I'm the last person who should be allowed to have a kid. Anyway, the first time, I drove all the way up to New York, but I didn't say a word to him—I told him we were just gonna go visit her. Linda and I talked for ours, while he played videogames or something. I was already connecting with him, I was-_I. Dave is so sweet, and kind, and sensitive, but he thinks like me a little and I was terrified of the idea that he might be, that I'd hurt him somehow. I told her tat I couldn't be with the kid, couldn't be around him, and she was—well she always understood me, really, really well, and knew exactly what to say to me. She helped. Then when we were driving home, the kid just looked up at me and he said, "You were gonna leave me there, weren't you?"

House laughed to cover up the fact that he was close to tears. "The second time, I had a nightmare. It was really stupid. I just freaked out. It had been more than a month now, and I couldn't even. I got in the car, but I couldn't pull on to the highway, we just…he still knew. Said, well—anyway, least yours won't remember that." This was is way of telling Lisa there was nothing wrong with her doubting her ability to be a good mom. "Mine's already in therapy." David made an angry face.

"Because my mom died! You didn't have anything to do with that. Probably the smartest doctor on the planet, but even you couldn't fix stage four breast cancer." He almost sounded like he was the parent and Greg the kid. House nodded for a second, looking at the floor. Then he smiled weakly, and looked up at Lisa who was confused by David's statements.

"He likes to know stuff. First night here, started asking a million questions. I got tired of answering, gave him a medical book. Within an hour, he had questions that weren't in it. Smart stuff too. Stuff my team wouldn't even think to ask. First time we went to visit his mom, starts grillin' her doctor, make sure the guy didn't screw up." He laughed, proudly.

"So what kinds of crazy stunts are the two of you going to get into if I agree to ire both of the House boys?" she asked, the baby in one hand, a bottle in the other., House JR blushed, a little, the older one just shrugged.

"I think putting _him_ on the team is gonna be a smart move. He'll keep his dad grounded. They think alike, which means the kid can think of less dangerous ways to prove their theories right than taking off a woman's skull," I offered.

"What did you do now?" Dave teased, but his dad just winked. "Did you at least solve the case?" He nodded. "Tell me about it?" They sat right beside each other, whispering, disusing the special-education teacher. Cuddy watched fascinated at first, growing mildly annoyed.

"Do they do that a lot?" she asked, moving the baby to her shoulder, burping her gently. I shrugged. _What's a lot_? "IT doesn't bother you? Being replaced by a third grader…" _I'd hardly call it replaced. I give Greg a bunch of things that the kid can't_.

"If I was really replaceable, he wouldn't have cared when I left. Besides, he won't lean on the kid, not the way he does on me. Plus I can do some stuff for Dave that he can't, teach him how to ride a bike," I started.

"Just 'cuz I'm not talking to you doesn't mean I can't hear you talking trash about me," Greg muttered, then turned his attention back to David before I could defend my comment.

"And I cook, and clean, and stuff. Guess tat makes me the step-mother. Apparently, I'm great at it, in case you ever need a chef, or a maid," I offered up, gently, in case Greg was still listening. "And I'm welcome to join in when the conversation isn't entirely over my head. You are too, sort of." Lisa eyed me suspiciously, rocking the baby, who was yawning, little arms stretched out. "David is it okay if we put Rachel in your room for a nap?" I asked. He said sure. I went with Cuddy. After placing her daughter in this chair thingy that rocked, and proceeded to snoop around, picking up one of the kid's models an electric orange t-rex.

"Which one of your kids does this belong to?" Rather than answer I sort of held my hand out, palm facing down, waist high. Se grinned, putting it back carefully. 'These are cute. David must have one heck of an imagination. Is he—does he know what he wants to do?" I shrugged. She stepped closer to a framed poster sized photograph of a carnival at nighttime, all the rides light up, and moving so quickly that they made odd shapes, booths covered n giant stuffed animals, a snack sand neon images of the food items. "He make that?"

"No tat was one of his mom's, but see that blurry person over there, the one that isn't moving, it's him And then," I paused, my eyes checking all around the room, "is an old one, but I think you might still recognize this guy." I handed over a framed portrait of Greg from about 12 years ago, sans facial hair—Linda always made him save—with fewer wrinkles, and more hair, but the same sad look in his eyes. He was sitting on a stool, guitar in his lap, fingers of his left hand posed to form an F-chord, the right one cupped near the strings, as if strumming.

"Dave's a bit more shy about his work. He let's us put them up in the other room, and put them in photo albums and stuff. He's incredibly talented, and no training. Well, his mom taught him all that she knew. Greg's really good about not trying to push the kid too hard into anything, but uh, I still think they're planning to team up, and I think it's gonna be good for both of them.," I smiled gently, looking down at the sleeping baby. "She's going to be gorgeous. You can see it already." Cuddy smiled, leaning down and kissing Rachel on the cheek.

"She's perfect." She was glowing, and looked much more like a mother than I had ever seen her before. "Thank you. Just having you be there helped. I think. Maybe—in his own screwed up way, House helped too. He doesn't really think of himself the way he said, right?" I didn't know exactly what to say, mainly because Greg hadn't shared with her about his childhood, and until he did, my mentioning that stuff would only complicate matters. She would feel bad for him, which would cause her to make bad decisions at work, and House would know what was happening, take total advantage of her lenience. She'd still let him do whatever he wanted, and that would lead to him asking for permission to do something completely outrageous, and dangerous and reckless. She would probably say yes, and he would end up killing somebody before she was fully willing to deal with her feelings. Then he would hurt worse, she would feel guilty, and so on and so on, and so on. House was afraid of being a bad father, obviously, but he was also terrified to be a great parent, because if he could be a good dad then anybody could, regardless of their biological relationship, which means that his "father" didn't give a crap, and wouldn't even bother to try. John House wasn't just a lousy parent, or a louse person, but a hundred times worse than his son had ever realized.

If _he_ was a good parent, then it wasn't difficult to not hurt a kid. It wasn't hard to love a child, even an annoying, sarcastic one, which means that had he been in the right situation, somebody would have loved him and he wouldn't have any of his emotional problems. He would have been happy, normal, okay, whatever. But John didn't love him, which made Greg feel like he wasn't worth it, or that the man who was supposed to care for, raise, and love him didn't think that he was deserving of any of those good things, or even the safety of a secret or two.

"He knows he isn't a monster, but beyond that…I just don't know. Greg had a—difficult childhood, and all he knows about good fathers comes from what he's seen on TV and in movies. So, any time the kid suffers, he thinks it's gonna scar the little guy for life Luckily Dave will be okay, which is gonna help with Greg's issues." Cuddy smiled, and gave the baby one more kiss before we went back to the living room. Greg and David were still talking, only now the conversation had moved to David's homework.

"So, what's going on in here?" Lisa asked, leaning over their shoulders to get a better look. "Are those—does he actually understand that stuff or is this just another one of your pranks?" David just smiled, finishing the problem he was working on, but Greg couldn't help bragging a little. Of course, if I had an eight-year-old who could do eighth grade math I'd probably brag too.

"I told you. He's smart. I mean, I tell everybody that, but…for some reason people don't listen to me. Maybe sometimes it's the right move, but the kid is brilliant. I mean, like a," David stopped him, grabbing his shirt and tugging on the sleeve. "You need a hand? Let's see, oh this is another one of those problems I was telling you about before. You multiply the fist number here with this number here, and then with the last—there you go, and then go on to the second number. There's an anagram for how to do these problems. Should help you remember."

"I know. They said it in class, but I wasn't really paying attention." Greg shot him a look. "Sorry, I just…yesterday was my mom's birthday. I know you said I didn't hafta go to class, and I probably should of stayed home. Don't think I learned anything the whole day." His dad nodded, patting him between the shoulder blades, and then hugged the boy.

Dinner was quiet, polite—except for a couple of obnoxious House comments—mostly we discussed work stuff, David's school, and science fair projects, and the grownups all did a bit of catching up. Lisa left shortly after the baby woke up. We put David to bed at 10:00 and Greg and I sat on the sofa, while he thumbed trough David's baby book. Linda had put it together entirely by herself. She didn't even buy a baby book, just a regular pad of blank pages. Each paging was lovingly hand decorated often with complex drawings from colored pencils, charcoals, paint, crayons, stencils and stickers. She'd put his hospital bracelets, photos, journal entries, hair from his first trim, the birth announcements, information from doctors appointments, milestones, newspaper articles, and even a piece of the kid's first balankey.

"You thinking about having another one?" I said, hoping it would make him laugh, which would relax the guy enough to get him talking. House shook his head violently. "Just wish you could have been there when Dave was little. That way he wouldn't have spent seven months in a class full of kindergartners who didn't know better than not to pee in the seat, right?" He nodded. "You and Linda got along better than you did with Stacy, but your fights were about a hundred times worse too."

"We couldn't of lived together, but I might-a had my own place, a few miles away. Could take him to and pick him up from school every day, go to movies, theme parks, spend weekends together."

"You could have gone rollerblading together," I teased. He stared daggers into me. "You have a great kid who you didn't find out about until this summer. You know as well as I do this is just a natural reaction. I mean, can you imagine how I would be if I found I had one of those?" He chuckled quietly, ten laughed harder, and harder, mostly—I think—it was meant to annoy me. "Shut up," I ordered, then kissed him quickly. "You love him, and who wouldn't. David is one of the greatest—if not number one—kids on the planet. And that other thing your feeling. It's called happiness." Greg picked up the nearest non-lethal object he could find (in this case a paper cup) and threw it at my head.

"I know that you stupid, stupid," he muttered, unable to think of something good. _Oh boy_, I thought. "He's me. Captain Evil thought I was a worthless little bastard. Turns out he was right about he last one, but…' I grabbed the guy again and wrapped my arms around him, kissing his head, and rocking slowly, saying, _I love you, _ and _it's gonna be okay_, and stuff like that. "I am so messed up, I actually feel bad about feeling good."

"You don't have all the answers. It's as simple as that. Everything you know about emotional stuff is pretty much based on pain and misery. New stuff is always scary. There's nothing wrong with being afraid." David used the walkie-talkie to tell us he'd had a nightmare, and needed his dad to come in and be with him for a while. House stood up and headed for the bedroom. "Hey," I called. "It's okay to be happy. You're allowed to like your life." He rolled his eyes, but smiled a little too.


	8. Safe

AN: goes with episode _The Greater Good _and I got some other interesting stuff going on here. Also, I'm totally weirded out by the fact that Cuddy's daughter has the same name as me.

Cuddy's first week back at the hospital went poorly, to say the least. She was angry, and miserable, because she was at work, instead of at home with the baby. What Lisa seemed to have forgotten was that she had been just as miserable at home, unable to do anything except take care of little Rachel. Or maybe she knew perfectly well that she would be miserable no matter what she did and didn't care. Depressed and angry, she decided to take her frustrations out on House. One day, we got to work only to discover that every elevator in the building was miraculously out order. I watched helplessly, as he made his way up the stairs to his office, refusing all my attempts to assist him, including when I offered to give him something stronger for the increased pain of crawling up six flights of stairs. He just panted, shook his head and said everything was fine.

A few hours later, I saw the poor guy trip, fall forward, and land flat on his face, looking so incredibly pathetic I almost expected him to cry, or at least do that thing with his eyes, and his forehead, where he looks at you like he's a little kid, and you're some horrible monster about to hit him, which was (on the most basic level) what she was doing. But he told me to leave it alone, and I did, for a while. That afternoon, he stumbled into my office, sat down, laid his hands on his knees, looking down at the floor, and sighed.

"I just got a call from Susan. She says the power and heat are off in my—our apartment. She tried to call the electric company, but…" he let out another sigh. "They wouldn't give _her _any information over the phone 'cuz she said she doesn't live there."

"And you're I here because you think that I…forgot to pay the bills?" I asked, quietly, confused, worried about him, us, our apartment, and the kid. House shook his head. "Did you call the power company yet?" He nodded. "Would they tell you anything?" He nodded again. "Are you gonna talk, or do I have to beat it out of you?" Greg leaned back in his seat, eyes squeezed shut, lips moving silently. "Sorry, that was a stupid, stupid joke. Sorry. Are you okay?"

"My kid is alone and scared and freezing, sitting in a dark room all by himself—well, I mean, it's not exactly the same as sleeping in the yard, in the cold, dark, scary," He was actually sort of stammering, which he only did when he was really upset. "I know that it's not even a little like the same thing, but from the moment I knew hew existed, I never wanted him to know what that was like. I'm being an idiot, I know, but," he stopped, biting down on his lip. "Apparently, Mrs. House called and said we were moving. They had someone come over this afternoon to shut everything off, and won't be able to come back until tomorrow." Greg ran a hand through his hair. "I told Susan to go to the Embassy Suites, over on—you know, by the gas station and movie theater," he explained. "Called ahead, made a reservation. We're gonna hafta spend the night."

"I promise you, I had nothing to do with this," I swore, and he nodded, crossing his arms over his chest, and rubbing his hands up and down over them. "Are you cold?" Greg shook his head, but didn't fight much when I draped my jacket over his shoulders. "They went right to the hotel, right?" Another Nod_. _"Then, he's safe. It's not cold. It's not dark," I started to explain, but the guy interrupted.

"No, he's just in some strange room, with a strange woman, without any of his books, or toys, or posters, or models, or that quilt thing his mom made with the pictures of all the different superheroes and stuff all over it, surrounded by rooms filled with people that he doesn't know and who could be totally evil for all we know." He sighed, visibly shaken. The problem didn't really have anything to do with David. The kid was fine, but Greg was not. The only way he had made it to this point in his life, was by building himself a safe, (almost) happy place, where he had been living, and sleeping, and crying, and eating, and surviving for most of his adult life, and in taking that place away from him—even for a day—Lisa had stole his safety, the same as ripping a security blanket out of the hands of a four-year-old.

"Why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off," I suggested. "I'll take care of the patient, and call with updates, or if we need anything." House sat still, staring straight ahead, a fraction of a second away from tears.

"I can't let David see me like this. I don't understand what's happening. I was pissed when I found out about the elevator. I was impressed with the thing with the doorway. I mean, it was just stupid, and nothing, but this shouldn't be…this is not that big of a deal. I'm okay, well, I should be. I just. I don't know why I'm so messed up right now, but it doesn't make any sense."

"If we could understand the things we're afraid of, completely, and think our away around that fear, then we would be able to get over it, simply, quickly, painlessly. I wouldn't have had a breakdown this summer and nearly flushed my career down the toilet, Dave's nightmares would have gone away a long time ago, and you wouldn't freak out any time everything in your apartment isn't exactly the way you think it should be. You could play this game with Cuddy—well no, actually, you wouldn't need to play games, with anybody. The dark, the cold, camping, the ideas of being loved or being a good father, none of these things would bother or upset you, but we don't have any control over our fears, rational, irrational; normal, bizarre; good, bad, or—I think it would be good or the kid to see you a little afraid. It'll help him see that you get scared sometimes too, which will help make him feel normal."

"Still think I should calm down a little first, and I would like to spend at least a small amount of time just sitting here, with you like this. I'm sorry. I know I'm just being—whatever. You've got other stuff to deal with. People who need you for more than a temper tantrum."

"Do you really think you're throwing a temper tantrum? That you don't…do you know that—this is not what you think," now I was stammering, a lot, but mine was out of anger. You're scared because Cuddy is messing with your security. She knows that you don't have much. She is hurting you, because it's easier than dealing with how she feels. Leave, I mean, when you want to. Go be with David. Order a bunch of junk food from the room service menu. Watch a movie. Play video games, whatever he wants. Even I you only do one of those things; Dave's going to remember tonight as a fun adventure. It's not a horrible, lie scaring thing for him. And I'm gonna fix this stuff, okay?" House shrugged, but I was determined. I was going to take care of it. I was going to protect him. He nodded, and left. I raced to Cuddy's office.

"You're hurting him," I shouted, slamming the door. At this point I didn't care who heard us, or what happened. This was getting completely out of hand, and she needed to know it. I couldn't stress the word hurting enough. She was basically beating the crap out of a toddler, and deserved to know it, but Lisa seemed proud of this. "No, you don't understand; you're actually, physically hurting him, and we both know that he can't handle it. If you wanna go home and be with the baby, then do it. If you wanna be here, at work, then do your damn job! You can not take your frustrations or—whatever—out on House. He's emotionally five-years-old."

"If you really think that this is as simple as whether or not I _want_ to be here, then I can't have this conversation with you," she exclaimed. "Of course I wanna stay home with Rachel, but someone has to be here to baby-sit House? Do you wanna be the one to tell him no every day?" Now she was standing up, getting in my face, angrily, like it was my fault, or Greg's. I sighed, exhaustedly.

"You kicked two children out of their home, made one of them fall, forced a cripple to walk up six flights of stairs. If you're not happy here, go home. If you keep doing this, he's going to leave, for good. House is taking the afternoon of to be alone with his son. You should do the same." Cuddy rolled her eyes, moments away from defending her actions. "You're an adult, and you're beating up on a guy who's basically a toddler. Nothing you can say will make _me _feel bad for _you. _Lisa sighed. "Do you really wanna beat up a five-year-old? Is that what this is about? Because it that's all this is, I can take you upstairs and you can beat the crap out a couple of cancer kids. I'll hold the bigger ones down if you think you can't handle them on your own. They won't fight back like Greg does; looking up at you all sweet and innocent, while he's purposely doing everything he can to ruin your life!" She gave me a look, as if to say, _it's just House. _ I'm not sure what happened exactly, but the best explanation I can give is that I exploded. I screamed at her some more.

"Oh, knock it of," she spat, crying. "That's not even close to the same thing. Despite your pampering, Greg _is _a grownup. He's a big boy who can handle himself." She really didn't get it.

"Then why isn't your ass super-glued to a toilet seat? How come he didn't replace your birth control pills with tic-tacs, or drop water balloons on your head when you were meeting with that donor this morning, and walking through the halls," I shouted, watching her face for a reaction. Cuddy looked down, sadly. "You can't keep doing this. If he thinks he's in danger here, he will quit. Look, he'd kill me if he knew I told you this, but House was abused growing up, physically, and emotionally. So when you hurt him—he is a child. Would you do this kind of stuff to Rachel if she misbehaved?"

"Of course not," Lisa said angrily, and then she walked back to her desk, and sat staring at the computer screen. She was watching footage from a web cam, the baby. "Cute, looks like she's playing peek-a-boo with the blanket."

'He made Cameron quit, and forced me to come back here!"

"And you're gonna retaliate by making him break is neck? You were bored and wanted to come back when Cameron was still having fun playing with Greg, but you couldn't do it then. You were miserable staying home, and you're miserable here. That's not going to change. You are always going to be miserable."

"So is he," she defended, but I could tell I was close to proving my point. "But the difference is that House actually enjoys it. I'm not doing anything that bad. He expects this of me."

"No he doesn't! The guy is—nobody is nice to him. You don't have to get engaged. You don't even have to like him, but you don't have to torture him. Wanna mess with his papers, hide his toys, and balls, shine a flashlight in his eyes when he's napping, make him do extra clinic duty? That's fine, but you have to stop hitting him, or he's gonna quit, and probably lose what's left of his sanity." She sighed, but nodded, quietly. "Go on. House went to a hotel to be with David for the day. Someone else can cover the paperwork and stuff. You can go home and be with the baby."

"Thanks," she whispered, gently. I went back to work. Greg called me some time after that. He was still somewhat upset, but pretending like everything was fine. He claimed to be unsure as to whether or not the kid was allowed to have a huge slice of chocolate cake before dinner, but after I suggested getting both at the same time, and letting him eat them in whatever order he wanted, as long as he ate a reasonable portion of dinner, House told me the truth.

"Is Cuddy still pissed at me?" he asked. I wanted to say, _no, I fixed it. _I knew he was nervous, in pain, and very likely sick to his stomach. The physical stuff, with the elevators, and the door bothered him slightly, but for the most part, he would have been okay if she hadn't escalated. What hurt him, was being reminded of all the terrible things he'd been through, losing his home—be it for a day, a week, a year, or his life—was incredibly painful. He was like an autistic child, comfortable only with his routine, his apartment, his bed, his food, his TV, his piano, his schedule, his home. The only difference was that he didn't let anybody see how he felt. Even David only understood we his father was upset, but didn't really know what his dad looked like when he was completely filled with pain. Greg didn't cry in front of the kid, didn't act scared or hurt or messed up.

"You want me to bring you a Ruben when I get to the hotel tonight?" He probably shrugged; I didn't hear anything. "No pickles," I added, quickly, in the hopes that he'd appreciate the gesture, or laugh, and calm down a little. "I'll be home by 10:00. Promise."

"Don't do that, you'll feel like crap if you're late." I said, I love you. Greg responded by saying, "whatever," and we hung up. I finally made it back to the hotel at 11:57, and found the House boys asleep on one of the two king-sized beds in our room. It was innocent, of course. Greg would never hurt that kid. Dave was tucked in, under the covers, on his back, but turned to the side a little, face buried in his father's stomach. Greg was half-sitting, half-laying on top of the comforter, the spread from the other bed wrapped around his crossed arms. He too was turned to the side, head tilted towards the left, right above the kid. I figured it must have been a bad night for both of them, since the only time I'd ever seen the two of them like that was when David was sick and they passed out on his bed, after staying up all night together. I almost didn't wake big House up. There was no reason to, not really, except to reassure the guy that he wasn't alone. But, he would wake up eventually and if I wasn't at his side, he'd feel nervous, scared, alone, and wonder where he was. He might even panic. Whatever waking him up now would do, it wouldn't be half as bad in comparison to how he'd react after regaining consciousness alone in a cold, dark, strange place—even though it wasn't really dark. As always, he was asleep with the TV on. And technically it wasn't really all that cold.

"Hey," I whispered, leaning down, and touching his hair. He snapped forward, as if he had been thrown across the room. House always woke up badly, no matter how it happened, whether he came out of sleep naturally, if somebody woke him up by touching him, or from a sound, like an alarm clock, phone, or talking. "I wanted to tell you that I was home, or at least—uh—here." He looked at the clock, yawning. "I know; I'm late, sorry. If you wanna stay there, that's okay," I insisted, but House shook his head standing up, and moving towards the bed. He was still wearing his jeans and t-shirt from earlier, but had taken off his shoes and socks. "Here, let me give you a hand, okay?" After he got into bed I said, "I know the answer is no, but if I don't ask, I'll feel guilty all night, and get a total of ten minutes sleep." He said nothing, and stared empty-eyed at the muted television, watching an infomercial for male enhancement pills. "Want your sandwich?"

"You actually brought me a Ruben at midnight?" he asked, corners of his mouth turned up slightly. I smiled, weakly, and shrugged. "I had a cheeseburger. Well, I picked at the thing. You know, it's weird. When I was a kid, I got so used to the combination of getting yelled at and getting crap beaten out of me, followed by not being allowed dinner, followed by…that now, when I get—sometimes if I'm…remember when—I…sometimes I get these stomach aches, especially if I get yelled at or hit or something. Well, I mean, it doesn't happen if a total stranger does something, but when Cuddy, or you, or few other people can cause it. Dave thinks I had a big lunch, but honestly…nothing since breakfast." I placed the palm of my and against his cheek, sliding it down to his chin. "Think it qualifies as ironic, or just sad?"

"I'm gonna fix this," I promised, giving him a small kiss on the forehead. "And if she lays one finger on you, come and get me okay?" I knew he never would, but making promises made me feel better, and they helped him as long as I didn't take them back, or fail. I think.

"I can take care of myself," Greg insisted, but I didn't believe it. Usually when someone—mostly Cuddy—picked on him, he always got back at them in some amazing, creative way. We even had our own little version of that. Unfortunately, right now, House hadn't done a thing. He wasn't even standing up to Lisa, or trying to get back at her. It was almost like He'd given up.

"If you say so," I told him, feeling less than confident. Greg let me wrap one arm around his back, the other across his chest, while he lay down, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. David didn't have any bad drams that night, or said nothing if he did. Several hours later, I awoke in the early morning to find my best friend awake and watching the silent TV again. "How's it going?" On mornings after nights like those, I always pretended like everything was perfectly normal and that his behavior didn't scare the crap out of me. "It's okay," I whispered. He shushed me. He was uncomfortable talking with the kid so close by. Personally, I found it hard to believe that David didn't know his father was in pain, upset, scared, not eating, afraid to go to work, allowing David to have cake instead of dinner letting him order $120 worth of Videogames and movies. Kid was smart enough to understand what those things meant, but I also knew from experience that there were times to push House, and times to just give him space and time to tell me what was bothering him. This was one of the latter. "So what are you guys gonna do today?"

"Probably just hang out; maybe take a nap or something in the afternoon. Haven't been able to do much of that tonight. Think I'm getting sick or something." I nodded, patting him between the shoulders. _It's okay_, I said, without words. He pressed is thumb against his lips, but stopped before he actually put it inside, or started sucking it like a kid.

"Would it help if I stay awake, and talk to you or something?" He didn't say or do much of anything. He just shifted is eyes back to the TV set again, unable to have a real conversation. "How's your stomach?" He shrugged again. "I don't suppose there's anything I can do that helps?" Nothing. "You know that I'm not mad at you right?" He nodded, quickly. "Doesn't help much either, huh?" Nope.I suddenly heard a soft buzzing sound somewhere on the other end of the room. I only just barely heard the thing. House's cell phone. "Looks like the team needs something."

"I know that's at least the sixth time it's done that. Might of happened more when I was asleep," he explained, not taking his eyes of whatever he was watching. "Must be important. Probably gonna have to go in and take care of it myself," he told me, with a sigh.

"Do you wanna wake David up, tell him where you're going, or is he gonna be okay?" Greg stood up, reluctantly putting his shoes and socks on, rubbing his leg, before slowly leaning over his boy, kissing the kid's hair, and limping towards the door, without saying a word. "Hey," I called after him. "I am gonna fix this." And I did. Sort of. Not really. Lisa figured things out on her own, and apologized. Greg solved the came. We moved back into the apartment, and House went back to his usual eating habits. He even stole half the French fries off of my plate at lunch. David was pretty fantastic; I was actually starting to feel fairly good myself, and Greg was his usual self, or the way he acted around the kid anyway.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

A couple of days went by. Our routine went back to normal. House seemed fine almost as soon as Cuddy stopped messing with him, although he refused to talk about it, as usual. We came home on Friday, with pizza. Even before we got all the way through the door, the kid came running up to us, and hugged his father.

"Dad, I'm so glad you're home," he cried. Even I thought the kid was probably overplaying is hand a bit. Obviously he wanted something, and he knew Greg would probably say no, so he was trying to suck up to him, in the hopes that it would help his case.

"Nice to see you too. Now, what do you want?" he asked, patting the boy on the shoulder. "That act doesn't work on me, by the way, neither does fake crying, real crying, the silent treatment, the talking to me until my ear falls off treatment, or anything else aside from getting Wilson to stop responding to everything and anything I say—which, unless you need a kidney, lung, or my bone marrow, isn't gonna happen."

"Monday is take your child to work day," David explained. _Oh boy, _I thought. _This is gonna be interesting._ House wasn't embarrassed by his son, ashamed of him, or whatever. Actually, I think it was exactly the opposite. He believed that the only reason the kid liked and had any respect for him was because the boy hadn't seen him at work. He's an ass and he doesn't care about people, but he isn't a monster. He did what he had to in order to survive what he'd been through as a child. Greg sighed, touching his chin. He was partially afraid to bring him to work and end up with the kid joining the long list of people who hate him. Who can blame the guy? David seemed to understand at least part of what was happening and knew that this was a bad time to manipulate his father.

"I dunno," Greg admitted, looking away, tiredly, rubbing his hair. "It's not that I don't want you there. It'd be fun. You'd show up everyone on my team. I would love for you to come and work for me when you grow up, but, you—people at the hospital treat me in a very specific way, and I act differently when I'm around them than I do when we hang out here. I'm not sure I want you to see me like that."

"So, are you putting on an act at work, or do you put on an act when you're at home with me?" David asked, sitting down next to his dad on the sofa. Greg made his _ah-ha_ face. _Good question, _he seemed to be saying. "It's okay if you don't know, Dad. I don't mind, really."

"I don't like people—as a general rule—but I not only like, I love you, Kid. I get along with you, which, as Jimmy will tell you, is a miracle. I can talk to you; I like playing games with you. I don't have to watch what I say—not that I do that for anybody—I think I'm happier with you, get along better with you than I ever have with anybody in my entire life. There's no question. You and me, Little Man, you and me." He stopped, considered what he had said, and added, "I just called you two demeaning nicknames in five minutes. Sorry."

"Little Man and Kiddo, aren't bad nicknames. My mom used to call me Little Man sometimes, although usually it was when I was littler, and she'd call me "my little man" or "Mommy's little man." I didn't like those as much, but I do like the—I dunno. Maybe I just miss her, not the nicknames and stuff."

"Is there anything she did that I don't, that I could?" David shrugged, and gave his father another hug. "I'll think about it," Greg said, and sighed, squeezing his temples. "Congratulations, you are officially the first person on the planet who can use guilt to get me to do something." David smiled, doing that thing with his eyes that Greg did when he tries to look innocent, only e really pulled it of. "Gimme a day or two to think and call Cuddy, and stuff, okay?" David nodded. "How are those teeth of yours coming?" They went to go check on them, and decided that—since the science fair wasn't for two more weeks—they should keep working on it a while longer.

"This is so cool," David exclaimed. "And gross. The one tooth is all dried up and tiny, and the other one soaked up so much soda it's actually brown, but that's not decay, it's like if you put food coloring into a vase with water, and put white flowers in it, the flowers will soak up all off the food dye and change color."

"All you have to do is say, that when you drink soda you don't keep it in your mouth for two months, when you present this to the judges."

"I should also explain that even a couple of cans or bottles a day aren't gonna rot your teeth out of your head, as long as you follow a proper oral hygiene routine, brush, floss, mouthwash, and bi-annual trips to the dentist"

"My kid's gonna get first prize," he cheered, tickling the boy, under his arms, and around his belly. Dave giggled hysterically, squirming, eventually falling to the ground, and kicking his little legs. Greg smiled, sitting down at the table a few minutes later, while David got started on his homework. He leaned back, thinking, debating, wondering. "I'm sorry, Little Man," he responded. "I just don't know what I'm gonna do here. Just need a little more time."

"Of course, Dad. Just take your time…" he started to say, but Greg needed to be alone for a while. We both sensed it. "Can I go play Gameboy in my room?"

"Sure, but—hang on. Come here," he ordered, giving the kid a hug. "I don't want you to think I don't like you or anything, alright?" The kid nodded, and said, of course he did. "I have no idea what I'm doing here," he told me.

"You're new at this. It's like Christmas, or when he was sick, or all the other stuff you're doing for the first time. And introducing the kid to everyone at the hospital," I stopped myself before I said anything too harsh. "David knows that you love him. He knows you wanna spend time together. It's okay to say no, but if you bring him to the hospital, even if he sees you kill someone, or whatever else you do, that kid is always going to love you. Always." He sighed. "But that's not what you're worried about is it?" I wondered, reaching forward, and rubbing his shoulders. "You don't want your team to see what you're really like?" But that wasn't it either. Mostly, I figured, he was worried that people would treat the kid badly, and hurt him. House had even stronger instincts to protect Dave than most of the parents I have ever met, because he has been hurt so many times when he was a kid, and he was absolutely terrified of what they would do to the boy, but he wasn't ready to say it yet.

"Could have sworn I already said that, but I guess you weren't paying attention," he moaned. "Some big help you are. I hafta repeat everything I think twenty times before you understand me." I looked away, before shrugging a little. "I'm gonna go call Cuddy. Maybe she'll know what I should do."

"I think you should do it," I suggested, but of course he didn't care. "Mind if I listen in, just so that –you know—you don't declare war on her or something." House picked up the phone, and dialed. After a few quick, less than pleasant pleasantries, he got right down to the point.

"So, uh, David came home today, and he was all excited and whatever. Apparently on Monday it's—um—I don't know why this is so difficult. Turns out Monday is take your kids to work day," he explained, playing with his fingers, tapping them against the table, softly.

"Well, you didn't have to call and ask for my permission. You can bring that little boy to the hospital any time you want to. Just don't let him perform any procedures, and keep him out of the patients rooms, okay?"

"I wasn't asking for permission," he said and started to add a choice word or two, but I gave him the look and he stopped. "Wanted to see—hear what your opinion is on the subject. I'm not exactly looking forward to firing my whole team 'cuz they realized that I'm a wuss or whatever."

"Did you actually want my opinion, or are you just looking or somebody to do the background noise while you talk?" she asked, and he made a face as if to say, same difference.

"I'm just…it's not so much that I'm a…. Also not thrilled with the idea of the kid seeing me work before he starts medical school, and—doesn't still have baby teeth. Although if things keep up like they are now, he might graduate medical school by 15." There was a moment of silence. Cuddy sighed. Greg pulled on his chin.

"I think you should bring him in," she explained, but didn't say why. He made another noise, still frustrated, and sort of sad. I squeezed his hand, which didn't seem to help him very much, if it helped in any way at all.

"Thanks for all your help," he snapped, before they hung up. House spent some more time 'thinking' about David coming to work with him, laying on the sofa, face up, staring at the ceiling. "Okay," he came up with at last, after a day and a half. "I've made my decision." David was playing solitaire on the computer, but he swirled the chair around to look at us. "You're coming." David was so excited that he didn't get to sleep until almost midnight. Shortly after that, House and I went to bed, and he pressed his face into my shoulder. "Think I can pass him of as a med student with that Gary Coleman thing," he asked, in _the_ voice, the one he used when he was up to something.

"Unfortunately not," I said with a small sigh. "He looks just like you, and he wants to—you're gonna have a hard time talking him out of wearing his scrubs, which have your last name on them."

"We aren't the only people on the planet with that name. Just 'cuz we don't know any of them…" He laughed a little, stroking his chin playing with his facial hair. "What about…I say I'm his big brother, big sister thing?"

"Same last name…" I reminded him. Greg gave me a dirty look.

"Stop trying to poke holes in my theories, and help me come up with a good plan. Everybody at the hospital is gonna know I—they're all gonna treat me different. I'll hafta fire my whole team, and hire 40 more fellowship applicants, and you'll end up falling for one of them, and then I'm gonna freak out, try to break you two up and…."

"Shut up," I insisted, cutting him off. "Even if Cuddy let's you do the whole process again…she'd rather the hospital lose you than let you do that again. Not to mention the odds of there being some one remotely like Amber in a group like—you know. Just stop freaking out. They were going to find out eventually."

"I know, but I was hoping I'd have more time to—I'd." _Come on, _I thought, _you're almost there. Say it. You can tell me._ "I don't want them to treat the kid the same way they treat me." House hurt all the time because of what John did to him, because of his everyone else in his life—except for me and David—had ever treated him, because he wanted to be liked but was absolutely terrified that he'd get hurt. So, he acted like an ass, kept them at arms length or worse, to keep them from getting a chance to get close, or harm him.

"No one in the world could be mean to that kid. He's the sweetest, nicest, most amazing little boy on the planet. It's one day. If they don't kiss the ground he walks on, or they do some unbelievably cruel, terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad thing to him, or whatever, I'll take David home after lunch, before it has any effect okay?" This seemed to be enough to get him to agree to not go back on his word. We sleep fairly soundly until the alarm clock went of, and we both opened our eyes to see Dave standing in front of our bed, completely awake, hair brushed, face washed, wearing his scrubs, and with his socks and shoes on. "Well, obviously you're not at all excited about going to work with me today, are you?" Greg teased. The boy continued to beam.

"Come on, come on, come on! We gotta get moving if we wanna get there on time," he commanded, with a silly, little grin on his face. Greg was moving at his usual morning speed, which is pretty slow. "Does your leg hurt really bad?" David asked, and he stopped smiling, a serious look moving across his face. "You can go to work right?" House, the older one, nodded, climbed out of bed, got dressed, and got into the car. As always, David seemed to sense his father's apprehension, and tried to ferret out what was wrong. "Are you alright, Dad? Are you…I mean? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just don't exactly love the idea of people," he started to say, paused, and took a deep breath. "Look, uh, if anybody says something to you, and it's upsetting, or mean, or they make you feel bad and you don't know why, even if you do know why, I want you to come and tell me or Wilson right away, and we'll take care of it. Okay?" David nodded, reaching for Greg's hand. He took it, and the three of us walked out to the car, and I drove to the hospital.


	9. Take Your Child To Work Day

"Give me your hand; I'd like to shake it.  
I want to show you I'm your friend.  
You'll understand, if I can make it clear,  
it's all that matters in the end.  
Put it there; if it weights a ton,  
that's what a father says to his young son," Paul McCartney

Greg took his time getting out of the car, not because his pain, or because his foot had fallen asleep, but because he wasn't ready to go in yet. Even David sensed it. He unbuckled his seatbelt when we parked, and climbed up into the front seat, squished between me and his dad.

"If you don't wanna go in, we could always do something else," the boy offered. House shook his head, but didn't move. "Are you okay, Dad?" He nodded. "But you don't want to go inside?"

"Don't feel bad; it's got nothing to do with you. Not exactly a huge fan of going to work. I'd much rather stay at home and play X-box, or do puzzles with you." Dave smiled, squeezing his hand. "Alright, let's go." He climbed out of the car, and reached for his backpack.

"No, wait, let me carry it. Please? It's not heavy." Greg shrug, and let the kid do what he wanted, and the three of us entered the building. The staff entrance just happens to be right next to the ER, so—of course—Cameron saw us just as we were coming in. I'm not sure what she thought, or why she really came over, but Alison walked right up to the House boys and me, smiled, got down to the kid's level, held out her hand, and introduced herself. Greg and his son exchanged looks.

"Cameron, this is David. David, this is Dr. Cameron. She used to work for me, but now she spends her days hanging banana bags, and replacing the fingertips of people who don't know how to cut bagels." She gave him a look, but the boy just stood there, trying not to laugh. "This is my…uh. Well, he…" House sighed, nervously pulling on his chin.

"I'm his son," the younger of the two explained, finishing his dad's sentence, "but you probably already figured that out 'cuz we've got the same last name" He pointed to the pocket of his shirt. Alison glanced at it. _Oh yeah,_ her face read.

"Can we go now or do you have a file you wanna give me. Or something else you wanna give me?" He stopped before saying something crude or disgusting—probably in reference to the fact that she was kneeling—but just barely.

"Sorry, all I've had today are the usuals." Greg nodded, and took the kid to the elevator. While the three of us stood waiting together for one of them to return, the guy turned around, looked at the door, muttered something to himself that sounded like "oh crap," and started to push the up button with violent fervor I took a quick glance to see what had upset him. Kutner was on his way in. House tapped the button again and again and again.

"Come on, come on, I don't wanna ride in the elevator with that idiot." David, naturally intrigued, tried to turn his head to get a better look at whatever was happening behind us, and tugged on his father's jacket sleeve. "That's Dr. Kutner. He works for me. He uh—I would really like if you didn't do that thing where you answer questions bluntly, like me, especially if he asks about me or your mom, okay?"

"Sure," the kid said, still smiling. Kutner slowed to a crawl when he saw House standing there, but the elevator car still hadn't come by the time he arrived. We were all going to be stuck together no matter what any of them did, or how little they wanted it.

"You realize that I can still see you right," Greg taunted. Kutner sort of nodded, and stopped, standing several feet away from us physical.

"Hi, he said to me. Dave looked up at him, and smiled. "Uh—hi_._" _And who are you_, he almost, but didn't, or couldn't, ask. When the doors opened, and the kid stepped inside with all of us, he finally said something. "Shouldn't you wait for your parents?" Greg laughed, David held it in. "What?"

"I can't believe I hired somebody who's that oblivious. He's parents are already here. Well one of them is. Kid's my son," House explained. 'I mean, it's not like his name is tattooed across his chest. Oh wait, it is!"

"Dad," the boy groaned, and was greeted with a small, nervous smile.

"I told you. I'm a different person at home than I am at the hospital. Probably could have given you more warning, but…it's kind of like farting in an elevator. Nothing to do but grin and bare it, pretend like you had—okay so it's not one of my best, but I make a dozen metaphors a day. They can't all be winners."

"So what—I mean, uh—you have a kid?" Kutner reacted the exact same way that everyone else who had ever met the boy ever did. Slack-jawed, and wide-eyed, he pretty much stayed silent for the whole ride. This was one of the few things David couldn't help laughing at.

"Yeah, and if you have any more stupid questions, keep them to yourself. Don't wanna hafta repeat myself, so I'll talk in front of the whole team." The House boys smiled.

"Okay." Kutner was still in shock when he stepped into the office. I stopped and took Greg and Dave to the side for a second, even though the older of the two seemed frustrated and unhappy with me.

"You know he's in there, blabbing about me and the kid to everybody. I gotta go inside before they decide something wired" he insisted.

"I wanted to see if either one of you wanted me to go into the office or not. I mean, I-uh—don't have any appointments or anything for a couple of hours. So, I can either hang out, playing online poker by myself, or pretend I need your help with something and stand in the doorway, in case somebody says something stupid, obnoxious, or mean, and gets you—whatever. It's up to you guys, completely. So, uh. Whatever. You know?" David shrugged. Greg pretended like he couldn't have cared less but I thought it would be better if I was around, even if it was just for moral support. "Just ignore me, or pretended you need to talk to me about something. If you don't have a case we can hang out in your office away from the team, let them make up whatever story the want to. Then, at lunch we go in and talk to them, or don't talk to them. I don't think it makes much of a difference." Greg sighed, nodded and stepped into the room, acting as if his team were invisible. Of course they wouldn't stand for it. Each had questions.

Taub said, "House what are you doing?'

"Why do—How did you get a kid," Thirteen asked, disdainfully, her lips pursed, nose wrinkled, even squinting her eyes a little. House senior actually smiled. The younger one covered his mouth before anyone could see him react.

"You see, when two people—well it's got to be a man and a woman, or well, technically, you just need part of a man but…anyway—when two people really love each other," he started to say, but she cut him off.

"I know that you jack—jer—I know that!" It's always funny to see people pretend to be nice to Greg when the kid is around, and listening. Sometimes they still call him names, or whatever, but they're careful about it. "I meant…"

"You meant, what kind of an idiot would agree to have a child with me, right?" He didn't wait for a response. "David wasn't one of those running around, basil thermometer, temperature taking, hormone measuring, shorts wearing, special "baby making sex" pregnancies. What? Unplanned not the same as unwanted. Kid's only eight and he's already more intelligent than everyone in this room, except maybe Wilson, and obviously me." He smiled proudly.

"What exactly—where…I think someone would have noticed if you had been running out to go to parent-teacher conferences and t-ball games the last couple of years, which means that the kid hasn't been living wit you very long, or rather that he hasn't been a huge part of your life for very long," Kutner came up with. Greg shrugged. "So what changed?"

"His mom got sick, over the summer. I was—I took care of him while she was in treatment, was gonna—but then she…I'm his dad. Kid's got nowhere else to go. What could I do, except—not that I haven't thought about putting him in foster care. I just—I dunno," he gasped, looking almost like he was about to start crying. House even sniffed a little, before he burst out laughing. "Kid's smart, like me. I've even started teaching him medical stuff."

"Yeah," Dave added. "You can make up a case, list the symptoms, and I can tell you exactly what the person's got." Greg looked down tat the kid sweetly. "I memorized more than half his books already." He gave him a little pat on the shoulder.

"You don't have to prove anything to these guys,' House said, putting his hand on the boy's shoulders. "Or anyone for that matter, but…" he paused, looked around the room, and added, 'I taught him a diagnostic game. It's usually what he said, with a complicated point system." Thirteen sort of half-smiled. Kutner beamed, Taub looked angry, or frustrated, or jealous, or something, and Foreman, obviously didn't care either way.

"Alright," Kutner said, hand on his face carefully thinking about it. He rattled off a list of symptoms that were obviously belonging to a person with thyroid storm. David got it right away, naturally. The team then took turns asking him questions, and he got most of them right. The whole process only lasted about fifteen minutes, but it was still nice. Eventually, even Foreman joined in, with the vitamin OD case he'd had a few months back. What he didn't know was that Greg had already talked to his son about that case, and so he knew the answer before Eric was finished. David didn't tell him how he knew, which made the guy even more impressed. Although, I think he probably would have gotten it, eventually, either way.

'Is this really what you do all day?" David asked, a few minutes later, in Greg's private office, as the two of them tossed the giant blue and red ball back and forth.

"Pretty much, except for clinic duty." The boy's eyes lit up with excitement. "90% of that is pretty much what Cameron does all day, without the gunshot wounds and aortic dissections. Although I did have a guy once who stuck a knife in an electric socket." House watched him for a while, and sighed. "But you still wanna go. Well, we can do what we're supposeda do with medical students, and ask if they mind having you observe." Dave nodded. He leaned his head forward, checking the other office to see if his team was still around. "We also sometimes have paitents with odd presentations of what usually turns out to be a rare disease." David nodded, and walked back towards his dad's desk, standing beside him, waiting patiently. "Just a second, I gotta...okay." He got up to his feet, slow, and stiffly. One hand quickly dipped into his pocket but came out, empty. He wasn't having a bad pain day, he just wasn't taking his pills the way he usually did. On days when he didn't work and the kid wasn't in school he took pills less regularly, and tried not to do it in front of the kid, just dealing with the pain whenever he thought he had to. When he worked or when Dave was in school—even before the boy came to live with him, actually—he took one pill when he woke up, another right after Dave got on the bus, as we were leaving, and a third shortly after arriving at the hospital. Today he hadn't had anything since we'd woken up, five hours earlier, and even then it was just one.

"Dad, what are you doing?" Dave asked, looking up at him, fairly intensely.

"Nothing," Greg lied, doing what he always does, speaking quickly, not elaborating, his voice quiet, avoiding any and all eye contact.

"If you had diabetes, and needed insulin, or were asthmatic and used an inhaler, you wouldn't think twice about taking your medicine in front of me, or around me, but because you're in pain you think it's irresponsible to take the meds that make that go away, because they make you—whatever?" Greg chuckled a little, not in a mocking tone, but the way he laughed when he was actually amused. "You thought I wouldn't notice that you move slower, keep quiet, and can't really focus when you hurt really bad?"

"No, I was just…" House's voice trailed off a little. He took out the Vicodin, swallowed one pill, with water, replaced the cap, and pushed the bottle back into is jacket pocket, and sighed. "Yeah, I sort of did, I guess. Or I figured that quiet and in pain made for better parenting than wasted and cruel."

"But you're never cruel to me, even when your dad died and I was being a brat because you forgot to get Hostess cupcakes at the grocery store, and I wasn't gonna be able to have one in my lunch. I don't think you've yelled at me at all the whole time we've known each other. And I know you never will. If you're letting yourself hurt because you think you're protecting me, then you're still in pain because of me." Greg nodded, smiling weakly.

"Okay, I won't do it anymore. You understand why I don't want you asking questions in front of people is only because if they hear you talk, and realize you're a kid, they won't let you hang out while they worry about their kid's runny nose, and beg me to make sure it's not gonna fall off."

"Can that even happen?" They both laughed lightly. "What are you gonna say when Wilson tries to follow _us_ into the exam room?" I had a couple paitents to attend to, and told them so. "Okay, we'll meet you at 12:00 for lunch," the kid suggested.

At noon, I found the two of them sitting across from each other, talking excitedly. Greg looked much better than he had in his office, and he popped up, ready to get in line, as soon as I got to their table.

"So, how'd it go," I asked, gently, and he sort of shrugged. I turned my head down, to look at the kid. He had that huge smile on his face. "If you like the clinic that much, maybe you can do my shift for me this afternoon."

"Only two of the people we saw said they weren't okay with me being in the room, and only one person asked who I was, and it turns out that _he_ had a disgusting personal problem…I did get to see a four-year-old girl who shoved Barbie shoes up her nose, one case of Strep throat, two people with bad coughs who thougt they had strep, a college kid who dislocated his shoulder trying to prove he was double jointed, an ear infection, a lady with an infected, homemade belly ring, a boy a little younger than me, who's mom gotreally scared 'cuz he threw up a bunch of red stuff.. It turns out he drank a whole bottle of red food coloring, lots of colds, and a couple cases of the flu, and some other boring stuff. Dad showed me how to take a patient history, and I'd watch. Then we'd go in the corner and talk about what we should do, and what I thought. I didn't know how to fix the guy with the arm behind his neck but I figured out the food coloring. Dad talked to Jordan's mom, and I asked him what he'd had to eat today. We split up and tried to get the answer out of the person we were questioning. He made a weird face and said, "Not much." Then, I told him how sometimes the guys at my summer camp used to mix foods, and sodas, or milk, with ketchup, and salt, pepper, paper, and all kinds of stuff. Then, we' dare or bet each other to drink or eat it. He looked up at me, really sad, and I added, "Once I ate a whole tube of toothpaste, and barfed blue stuff for like, a day and a half." That's when he told me. Well, I mean, we both knew he'd probably eaten something, but he wouldn't admit it. That's why we split up, divide and conquer."

"Kids a natural," House said, reassuringly. "And he likes this stuff, but—well, I gotta tell you, Dave. After a couple weeks, the Barbie shoes, and sore throats lose their novelty, and even winning the clinic's weekly "weirdest thing to be pulled out of an orifice" contest can't make up for how much having to work there sucks."

"Think bright pink high-heel shoes will win?" the kid wondered, grabbing a plate of French fries, adding it to his tray of chocolate milk, and pudding.

"Hey," Greg gave him a little nudge. "How about some actually food. I mean, unless you _wanna _get diabetes, and risk losing a foot, and I'm not talking about not growing that extra 12-inches." The kid laughed, and headed for the salad bar. I almost told Greg not to talk to him like that, but the boy seemed even less bothered by his comments than I usually was. We both knew that his dad couldn't control himself, and sometimes said stuff he didn't mean, but I couldn't always stop myself from feeling hurt by the cold, obnoxious, disgusting, disturbing things that came out of his mouth. David didn't have a problem with it. Not that it mattered; this was the only time I'd ever seen him say something with that level of coldness in front of, let alone directed at, his son. "And it's possible," he added when we got back to the table. "We can win, but there's no prize for winning. It, uh. I—it's important for you to know…you did a good thing this morning, with that kid. Kept us from having to perform a painful procedure on him. Sort of reminds me of something that happened when I was a medical student, on my pediatrics rotation." I remembered this story. It was how he first told me he'd been abused as a child. "Not sure if you're ready for this story yet. It's…upsetting." I couldn't tell who he was trying to protect more, David, or himself.

"It's okay, Dad," Dave promised, pressing his hand on top of his father's. "I'm not gonna finish my fries. If you want them." House sighed, picking one up, and holding onto the thing, without actually eating. "You don't hafta tell me." Greg nodded, putting the French fry down. He had that sad sort of look on his face, and was about to open up. "I wasn't trying to manipulate you. I really meant it."

"This was—a while back and they had only just started to teach doctors how to look for signs of child abuse. I didn't have to be taught, but the doctor I was working under was older. He didn't—wasn't that he didn't believe parents did stuff like that, but this was a new idea, and he—we had a little boy come in with this dad who…the kid had a spiral fracture to his ulna, and the x-rays showed a bunch of healed breaks, arms, collar bone, rubs." He stopped, mid-sentence, running a nervous hand through his hair. David leaned over and gave his father a hug. "Thanks. That—I, uh, I'm, I just…I got the doctor to get the dad out of the room. I put a cast on the kid's arm, and usually, a four-year-old with a broken arm would shriek—I only had one other kid that little with a broken arm, he fell off his tricycle, that kid didn't stop screaming the whole time we were with him—but this kid knew not to cry, knew not to make a sound. Then, I sat down next to him, and said, "How did you really break your arm?" I was real gentle, and sweet, and kind, on my best behavior. I sat down, letting myself relax enough to show that I was sad and scared, and—well kids who grow up in abusive homes all act a certain way, and we can…I can always see it.

"Ben said he fell down the stairs. "That's what I used to say, sometimes. I also used, I tripped, I fell out of my bed, and I got hurt playing sports, but…uh, my dad, used to get mad, a lot, and no matter how good I was, no matter what I did, it wasn't enough. It was my fault, he always said, and I dunno, maybe he was right." The kid kept trying to feed me that line about falling down the stairs. I showed him a couple of my scars, and told him how I got tem. Finally Ben broke down, and stared crying, and he told me the truth. Turns out "Daddy" was a total psycho. Ben went into foster care, not sure what happened after that. He came back a few weeks later to get the cast off, said things were beter by then, but that was…wow, almost 25 years ago. Every doctor in the hospital kept telling me what a good job I had done, how nobody had seen it except me, but…I. I was good at peds. I can talk to kids. I understand them. And I don't—I hate most people, but not as much with kids. Up until that day I was actually considering going with the dinosaur ties, and brightly-colored stethoscopes, and stuff. But I couldn't—I mean uh—we get abused kids every once in awhile, and I don't do so good with them, but…sometimes they don't always hafta—sometimes you can't prove it and the kid goes home with the monster, and I…even the. I couldn't do it. I dunno, maybe it's not the same thing," he said, quietly.

"You probably saved that little boy's life. All I did was get a little boy to admit that he ate something gross. All little boys do that."

"Hey—no, Little Man, that's not what I meant. Well, it is. Sort of, but I didn't mean that yours wasn't good, or—whatever. We both knew something that helped with a case, and we used that knowledge to get information from a child, who otherwise wouldn't have said anything, and would have ended up getting hurt really badly if we hadn't of known what we know, and I uh—I'm not so good at this part." David hugged his father again. "Maybe we can find a real case so you don't have to spend the whole afternoon playing Gameboy with me."

"I wouldn't mind," David exclaimed, happily.

"Well, of course not, but you do want an accurate picture of what my job is like, right?" The kid nodded. "And besides, don't you have to give some sort of a report or presentation on your parent's job in front of class?"

"Well yeah, but I already know what I'm gonna say about the medicine and stuff I knew pretty much exactly what I was going to say no matter what, and I am having fun…in case you were worried, or whatever."

"I was. I can usually tell when you're happy, and I can definitely tell when you're enjoying yourself." He picked up another French fry, and popped it in his mouth. "Oh boy, incoming." I lifted my head up, to see Chase and Cameron approaching us, trays in hand.

"If you guys want your jobs back, I don't think I can do it." Chase laughed, boisterously, and both House boys gave him a dirty look. They looked away, blushing slightly.

"Sorry, didn't mean anything by that," Robert attempted to explain, but I don't think any of us actually believed what he was saying. "We just came down to grab a bite to eat." Greg laughed, the annoyed, mocking laugh.

"No, you came to see the freak show." He quickly turned to Dave, adding, "You're not a freak. I didn't mean it that way. It's just—they both know me ,and I'm not—nobody would suspect that I'm a parent, so watching me interact with you, be nice to you, act like a human being, that's the freak show, not you."

"You're not a freak, Dad," the boy insisted, but House just sort of shrugged, as if saying, _of course I am._ "Do you guys wanna ask me questions and stuff? I'm used to it. I've been getting that all day. The nurses were all talking about me and stuff….well they were talking about my dad, but it kind of had to do with me too." Cameron smiled at him again, reassuringly this time. Greg got a very serous look on his face, almost like he was concerned. "I don't think they knew I was listening, and it wasn't mean, just…gossip."

"That happens a lot in the hospital," Chase said, before Greg had a chance to say something rude or obnoxious. "I like your scrubs," he added. "You know, those are technically surgical colors."

"Yeah, but I wanna come and work for my dad. It would be so cool." Chase's eyes turned into saucers. "I mean, because we really get along, and we think alike, and he and I…I can come up with other ways to prove his—our—theories without having to go to the same extremes that he has to go to now."

"Well, it sounds like you two have everything figured out them," he said, sounding odd, like _he _was sad or jealous or something.

"Don't feel bad, Bobby. I'm getting pretty good at this whole fatherhood thing. If you want or need a daddy figure, I can totally take care of that for you," Greg said. The kid laughed. I blushed a little.

"House!" Cameron squeaked. He smiled, finishing off his sandwich.

"Oh come on. How long have you known me? That can't be the worst thing I've ever said to either of you, or any of you." Dave sort of nudged his dad in the stomach, with his elbow. "Nuh-uh," he grunted, but the two of them whispered to each other. "Okay, fine." He turned back to Chase and Cameron. "Perhaps that was a tad insensitive and a bit over the line. I'm not apologizing or anything, but—whatever."

This was right around the time that Foreman came over to our table, leaned over and said, "House, we've got a case." I followed the three of the upstairs, listening as Eric filled them both in on the details. "It seems neurological, but the MRI of her brain was clean."

"You got anything?" he asked the kid before responding.

"I dunno. Can I look at her file?" Greg nodded, and quizzed the team while his son did research. House had an idea as to what was wrong, and he sent Taub, Foreman, and 13 to run tests. Well, technically he sent all of the ducklings, but Kutner didn't leave.

"What now?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, sounding mostly annoyed, and a little concerned. "I know that look. I've been getting it since I learned to stalk. Spill it, or go do your job."

"I just…I wanted to, uh—that is, I'm sorry for how I acted this morning. I was completely out of line, and inappropriate. I was surprised, and I don't always make the smartest choices when I'm surprised."

"You must be easily startled," he snarked. Greg didn't like it when people said rude or cruel things to or about him, but he didn't mid. At least, he claimed not to, but when people said something even the last bit mean in the presence of his son, he became the big, angry, protective papa bear. He'd do _anything _to keep that kid from getting hurt. "Are you done now? Or are you gonna hug me or something?"

"Dad, I've got a question," David intervened, and Greg went to help him. "I don't know what this is, here." He pointed to something on the MRI. "See, it's really small, but…" Greg picked it up, and put the image on the light board.

"I can't believe they missed this! That's a micro tumor. I think I've gotta raise your allowance. Maybe you can have the salary of whatever idiot screwed up this scan." Dave blushed a little but was still beaming. Kutner brought everyone back. House called them out for missing it, and called them idiots. The tumor explained everything. He solved another case, mostly because of David.

That evening, after work, Greg and I took the kid out for ice cream to celebrate his amazing job. "So, do you still like me?" Greg asked, tapping his cane against the floor softly.

"Of course, Dad. Why wouldn't I?" the kid asked, taking a large bite of his brownie sundae. "You weren't mean to me, and you only yelled at those other doctors because they messed up something that n eight-year-ld could figure out." The House boys shared a small chuckle. "Do you really think you're some kind of a monster or something?" Greg just shrugged his shoulders again. "Is that something your dad used to tell you?"

"He wasn't my—_thanks_, mini-Freud, but I don't need advice from somebody who—I know I'm not the worst person in the world, but I'm not nice, and most of the time I'm not even a good person. Everybody knows that about me, but I usually don't care. Doesn't matter what anybody thinks of me, but…you and Jimmy—and my mom—are pretty much all I've got. He knows what I'm really like, so I don't hafta worry about him thinking...whatever about me, but you and I have only been together since May…" He sighed once more. "I'm not ready for you to think about me the same way everybody else does."

"Dad, that's never gonna happen. I promise," the kid swore, sweetly. "You're nice to me, way nicer than you are to anybody else. And I love you. We're okay. I mean it." Greg sort of rolled his eyes and looked away, but didn't fight it when his son tried to hug him.


	10. Bad Fathers

AN: Post _The Social Contract_, pre _Here Kitty. _

Nearly 24 hours had passed since I'd gone to see my brother. Greg said nothing about it, and neither had I. David probably knew something was up, but figured we'd tell him what was wrong eventually, and that we were all probably, technically, fine. So, when House limped into my office, with _that_ look on his face, I couldn't help but worry about what was going to happen next, what he was going to do, or say, and how I would react. I was worried he had an abused kid that he didn't know how to deal with.

"I need a favor," he said, quietly, without elaborating. This could either be very good, or very bad, but I knew him well enough to realize that it wouldn't be somewhere in between. "I wouldn't ask, except that you drove me here, and I have to go someplace before going home. Otherwise I have to go to the apartment, tell Dave that I need to go out and that he can't come with, which will make him worry, and then go do this, come back, deal with his freak out, and—anyway, it's only gonna take fifteen minutes."

"What do you need," I asked, standing up, pausing at his side, and placing my hand on his shoulder. "Obviously it's got something to do with the kid, or else you would just take him along. What? I can be like you. I usually chose not to, but I _can_." He smiled a little, moving my hand, taking it in his. "Where do you need to go?"

"Toy store," he explained, looking up at my face for my reaction. "I am a horrible father. I say things to him, that I shouldn't of said to Captain Evil—when he was still alive. I understand him—he's…and don't tell me he's okay. He's not okay. He's coping excellently. There's a difference. A big one." Greg had a point. Unfortunately, he was wrong. Or, rather, he was just reacting to the situation incorrectly.

"So you're gonna buy him a present every time he gets his feelings hurt?" I phrased this sentence very carefully. "Because if you do, he's gonna figure out what's happening, and he'll manipulate the shit out of you, to get toys. He's a kid. That's what they do. You're making it easier for him," I explained, still gently. "He's normal."

"No he's not. Stop trying to make me feel better by feeding me some bullshit line. You said you'd never do that to me. The only reason I haven't hit you yet is because I'm trying really hard to—be better." I didn't have to ask, be better at what? I already knew how he'd answer me. "I'm gonna try and not be—whatever, around him. I can't. He's starting to turn into me. And I'm—well you know, you've been putting up with me for the last 20 years as penance for---anyway, I'm—not happy. Not usually, not—I don't wanna be, ever, well. That's not completely true. It hurts, and I'm not talking about my leg. I probably need—help." He was being careful about his word choice too, not because he cared about Danny or my feelings towards him, but because he believed something had changed between us and didn't know what I might do if he went too far. "I'm not gonna let him feel like this. I'm not gonna let him go through life feeling like he's—I'm not gonna let him turn into me. And the only way I know how to stop it, is to stop being me—at least around him." I wrapped my arms around him from behind. Greg's most recent paitent had caused him to think about his life, or at least his kid's life. He was worried for no reason. David was fine. He was as happy as a child who had lost a parent less than a year ago could be.

"Your childhood was sheer Hell, and you want his to be the opposite of that. You want his life to be perfect. You think you can do that for him, somehow. I'm not really sure what you think you're doing, actually. I'm sorry, but whatever it is, you can't do it."

"I know that! I know every stupid, goddamn, idiotic thing that you're going to try and tell me. "Dave is fine. Dave is—healthy, normal, happy, whatever you think. I'm a good father…" if that wasn't so fucking pathetic I'd laugh. "I _have_ hurt him, said terrible things to him, and I'm going to make up for it."

"You're rewarding him for putting up with you?" I hadn't let go, even though he was squirming. This was the most illogical conversation I'd had in years, which was weird, considering all the phone calls from Danny years ago, and a couple days earlier. "Well in that case, I'd like all the money I've ever loaned you back, and for you to pay for the next…two years…worth of pizza, Chinese takeout, lunches, breakfasts, groceries, gas, breath mints, toilet paper, condoms, and shampoo."

"It's not the same thing. You're an adult, you associate with me because you want to, or you think you want to, or—whatever. If I hurt you somehow, you tell me about it. If you have a problem with something I say, you let me know. If I do that to David, he just sits there, and look up at me—and he…he says nothing, he does nothing. He just takes it. I'm abusing him, emotionally and I gotta tell you, I know first hand, that it is just as bad as getting the crap beaten out of you. Hell, if one of your parents tells you that you're an idiot, or worthless, or—whatever…that hurts a lot worse then getting your arm broken."

"You're over-reacting. Take a deep breath, yeah I know—you don't believe in this stuff, but for once just trust me. Okay? Another one—just a couple more and then you can talk to me again—and close your eyes—there we go. Deep breath, in and out, and that's it. Now I want you to picture a—well this is usually where I'd tell someone to picture a calm beach scene, but that's not gonna work for you, so uh— Truckasauras, with a Ford Focus in one hand, flames coming out of his nostrils, smoke everywhere, people cheering—don't fight me on this. I'm not gonna stop. You have to do this for me. So, you see it—you there? Good, okay, keep picturing that, and take couple more deep breaths. That's it, that's it. Good work. Okay, now open your eyes. There. See, that wasn't too bad now, was it?" He gave me the I-can't-believe-you're-such-a-moron look, but I could see that he was visibly relaxed, less erratic, more willing to listen to what I had to say. "Everybody parent messes their kid up in one way or another.

"Some people are too strict, and rigid and the child reacts by acting out, behaving badly, rebelling, usually too much, sometimes ending up in jail or juvie, or dead, or the kid grows up to be rigid, and strict, and just as emotionally messed up as the kids who go out and steal cars, or whatever. Some parents are too easy going and their kid learns how to manipulate them, get away with murder, four-year-olds coloring on walls, or nineteen-year-olds who have pharm parties and take twenty different pills in one night. Some parents—hit their kids, have sex with them, give them drugs, or booze, or starve them. Some parents have psychological issues, and they either try to deal with their problems or they don't. Either way, the kid feels the effects. Some parents yell and scream and then come back twenty minutes later with a bar of chocolate and a half-assed apology. You can not make his childhood perfect. All you can do is try your best. Love him, be there for him, support him, teach him stuff, play games with him—you know actual video and board and card games, not the ones you use on your team, and me, and Cuddy—love him. That's all you can do. That's all anyone can do.

"Look, David was never going to be one of those happy-go-lucky morons who sits in a cubicle all day playing Minesweeper and reading joke emails. He's too smart for that life. He was never normal. Having you in his life is an advantage, because you understand how he thinks, and you're smart enough to have a real conversation with him. His mother couldn't do that, I can't do that, even most of his teachers can't do that. He's eight and already smarter than I am. He's learned more about being a doctor in the nine months he's known you than I did in four years of college and one year of med school. David is lucky to have you, and he is going to continue to be lucky to have you, will grow up to be—happy. To some degree—more you than, more than me, and if that's not enough, then he can go to therapy. He's gonna be smart, and funny, and sarcastic, and cool, and whatever he does, he's going to be amazing at it. You really, truly love your son, that's already miles ahead of—a _lot _of parents."

"Shut up," he snapped. "You're giving me a headache and—what exactly are you trying to accomplish? Trying to get me to believe that I'm not a monster? That I haven't been doing a crappy job? That I'm father of the year? Or are you going to try and get me to agree not to buy him a toy today? Something else? Because you went through about five or six different arguments in that diatribe there, and I gotta figure out which stupid point to counter first." I sighed, sitting down on the arm of his chair. "I need a ride to the toy store after work today. You can't talk me out of that one." This time I agreed, figuring that if I let him have the small victory, he might be willing to listen to me when it came to something more important. "Are you actually doing what I think you're doing? Do you think I'm a toddler and that the super nice, all-powerful, Saint James Wilson is going trick me into listening to him on something huge like who I am as a person, because he lets me have one little thing that I want—need?"

"Okay, so you caught on to that a lot more quickly than I expected. I don't think you're—that was wrong of me. Maybe buying him a toy right now isn't the worst idea in the world. You can't do this every time you have a patient with a kid, or who is a kid, or because you feel like you might have done something that could have upset the kid, because—because to give him everything on the planet without his ever having to work for it, is worse than the life he has now, worse than any bad thing you think you might do to him by acting like yourself. If you hide who you really are, or try to be less of who you really are, or whatever you think you can do so that he doesn't become cold, and bitter—he's going to believe that you're acting that way for a reason, and he's going to start to think he'll always have to hide at least part of who he is from everybody else, he's gonna be like…I don't know, someone else. That'll hurt to."

"So there's nothing I can do to make him safe? There's no way to prevent myself from hurting him? From psychologically punching an eight-year-old?" House was breathing heavily again, not crying, but somewhere close to it. He wanted to believe that his childhood was an anomaly, that he could protect his son, that he could do something to give David a happy, healthy, perfect life, despite his constant assertions that there was no such thing as perfect.

"Telling him that the world sucks, and that everyone is out to get their own, is not the same as hitting him, or telling him he's worthless, or molesting him, or anything else you're afraid of. You _are _a good father. David loves you, and you love him, and he's going to be okay. He's going through a rough patch right now, but his mother died. He'd be just as upset and confused, and terrified no matter who he was living with. No, I take that back. There is nobody on this planet who would be more understanding, and there for him after his nightmares, than you have been. Do you know why his therapist suggested he get out of bed, check on you, and then go back to sleep on his own? It's because she thinks he shouldn't wake you up, thinks that he needs to deal with things on his own. By doing whatever it takes to make him feel safe and secure, you are going to help him get over this faster and better than anybody—and I do mean anybody—ever could. You may not understand exactly what he's going through, but you know enough, emphasize enough to be exactly what he needs." Greg rolled his eyes. "I'm not feeding you a line. I'm not telling you this solely to make you feel better. You _are_ doing fine. There's not a social worker, therapist, judge, parent, teacher, or anyone else in the world who can watch the two of you interact, and not see that you are the best father for him." House and I had this conversation, or one like it, at least twice a week. He had plenty of confidence in himself as a doctor, and a poker player, and an expert in all things logical or theoretical, but emotionally, he was as insecure, as afraid, and in as much pain as he had been as a child. He was completely unprepared to be a father, especially to his own kid, especially just a few months after his own abusive, monstrous "father" died, without having ever apologized to him, or doing a single decent thing for him in is entire life.

"So, are you gonna take me to the toy store or do I have to go on my own?" he asked, looking up at me like I was his parent. I smiled, gently, and kissed the top of his head, nodding a little. "But…?"

"But I'm imposing a $25 spending limit, and you can only get him one toy, regardless of whether it costs two dollars or twenty. What? You and I both know that you need somebody to take care of you, and all you've got is me and David. He can't do it. And besides, if I let you go into Toys R Us alone, you'll come out with an X-box360, and ten or twelve cartridges."

"No I wouldn't," he spat, but I could already see his eyes moving around a bit, as the thought entered his mind, was processed, and while more complex and—probably—convoluted ideas raced about his brain. He did this a lot, started talking to someone, and then got an idea, and went off into his own little world while trying to figure things out, usually this also caused him to ignore the other party entirely. "Okay, maybe I would, but I won't." He smiled weakly, and watched me for a while. "You're an idiot, by the way."

"Because you're a terrible, horrible monster who has absolutely no business whatsoever being anywhere near a child of any kind, let alone an amazing, brilliant, wonderful kid like David, who has all sorts of possibilities ahead of him, a boy who could become president and bring forth world peace, or the doctor who cures cancer, he could or end global warming, poverty, or world hunger, or become the first person to walk on Mars." I knew it was a gamble to taunt him like that. After all we'd just gone through; he could easily slip into one of his dark modes and be completely miserable, silent, and unable to deal with anything for the next 12 to 36 hours. He cracked a small smile, and then shoved me, playfully.

"You're lucky I'm only half as pathetic as I look, or else you could of given me a nervous breakdown right there," he explained, slowly moving his hand to his leg, and carefully trying to get up.

"Hold on," I ordered, moving so that I was in front of him, and then leaned forward, kissing his cheek. House moved his head, pressing our lips together, and forcing my mouth open, slipping his tongue inside. "Stop." I pushed back a little, my hands on his shoulders, searching his face for signs of distress, discomfort, or pain. "You were just talking about—well you know, and I'm worried that…I don't want you to feel like you have to do this in order for me to like you, or—anything. I want us to be okay. I want you to trust me, be alright with me, and not be afraid of me."

"How many times do I have to tell you that I can handle doing _it _with you?" he yelled, but in a somewhat quiet voice. He pushed me, and I stumbled backwards, banging against the desk, coming up unharmed.

"I'm thinking every time we have sex would probably be good. Because I don't know. I don't know, I'm sorry, but I don't, and I'm not going to risk doing something that you'll perceive as my raping you—or…I know. You hate it when I get like this, but there are times when if I were to even—there have been times when you are drunk, or exhausted, or depressed, or in a lot of pain, and I'll put you to bed, and start taking off your clothes, and if you're even the slightest bit off, if you're not in exactly the right mode, you freak out, and scream, and kick, and try to fight me, and I can't tell if your gonna hit me, or just go along with what I tell you to do because I told you to do it, or if you want this. I don't know—not unless you let me know. So, let's—would a codeword work? Like if I ask you to say Orlando or something, if you want me to stop would that make any difference?" He shook his head. "Okay," I whispered, sitting beside him, wrapping my arms around his body, and holding him close. "Let's just sit here for a wile okay?" House closed his eyes, and pressed his head against my shoulder. "You get any sleep last night?" He shook his head. "The night before?" A shrug. "Wanna go home?"

"I gotta stop at—" he started to say, but I cut him off, and said I knew, and that it was okay. We drove to the nearest Toys R Us, pulled into the parking lot, and he told me what to get. I ran inside, took a picture of the set of Justice League action figures with my cell, and sent it to him to make sure it was the right one before buying them, and—after waiting in line for what felt like hours—racing back to the car. He was half asleep, head lolled to the side.

At his apartment, I helped him out of the car, practically carrying him as we made our way inside. He said hi to David, hugged him, and asked how his day went, before I made him lay down and go to sleep. The boy followed me around, as I put my briefcase down, and decided what I was going to cook for dinner.

"What's wrong with my dad," Dave demanded, grabbing my arm with both hand, squeezing it. "He isn't—is he sick?" I knew what he really wanted to ask was, _is my dad gonna die, _but was afraid. House senior didn't take naps when he got home from work. Sometimes at the office he might try and catch a few minutes sleep here or there, but he never came home, and crawled directly into bed, unless there was something wrong. I hadn't wanted to admit everything to the boy just yet, unfortunately, I needed to explain, and the only way to do that was to explain, completely.

"My little brother is sick, and well—actually…he's been sick for a long time. He was—homeless—and the police found him a couple of days ago. He was taken to a hospital, and I didn't tell Greg about it. I sort of lied to him about it, because I was afraid, and in pain, and nervous, and I didn't know how he would react."

"_You_ can't lie to him! _You _can't hide stuff from him, because he always knows, and it makes him think that you don't like him anymore! He's been wondering around the apartment for like a week, freaked out and sad, and thinking that you were gonna leave, but too afraid that I'd find out to say anything about it."

"He's been too—he couldn't sleep, and when you don't sleep for a couple of days, well…you get really tried, and your dad is just—recuperating. He's gonna be back to his old self in no time. He just needs to get some rest. I'm not going anywhere. Nothing is gonna change."

"Except for—" David started to say, but cut himself off. "What about…what's gonna happen with your brother?"

"I don't know," I admitted, watching his face before saying anything else. He believed me. "But he isn't going to move in here with us, and I'm not going to leave to take care of him full time. I can't promise you too many things, because I can't predict the future, but I can promise that I would never choose to leave you, or your dad, and he would never leave you, no matter what he had to do."

"I know," the boy said, quietly, and then sat down at the table and went back to doing his homework. I figured that House senior would be out for a couple of hours, and so I made David a small snack to tide him over until dinner, and started on the meal around 7:30. I don't know if Greg woke up naturally, or because he smelled the food, or because I was making a bit of noise, but he limped into the kitchen right around the time I was taking the casserole out of the oven. "Hi, Dad," the kid exclaimed, running over and hugging him.

"Hey, Little Man," Greg yawned, trying to reorient himself to the conscious world. He sat down, grabbed a plate, and piled it high with food. "Did you—you know," he asked me, between bites. I said I hadn't. Of course, David already knew that something was happening even before his father woke up, but this confirmed his suspicions. "I've got a surprise for you after dinner, but don't worry, it's a good surprise." They talked about school and work, and other stuff, told jokes, and by the end of the meal, both of them were more relaxed and smiling a little. After we ate, they both gave me, sweet, sad little looks, and I gave them permission to go have fun. House and House junior went into the den, and even though I knew I should have been washing dishes, I watched the two of them from the kitchen, and listened in as they talked.

"I'm sorry Wilson was lying to you all week, but—he wasn't trying to hurt you, you know," David started off. I watched the older of the two sigh, shaking his head, but smile a tiny bit too.

"I can't get anything passed you, can I," he asked, gently, leaning down to tickle the boy. They had a small tickle fight. "Hey, let me up, or I'm gonna take back the surprise." Dave jumped back, still laughing, and completely ready to go back to attack mode if his father tried to break his promise. "I haven't always been exactly, great. And you have put up with a lot of shi—nonsense from me. I'm not perfect, and I never will be, but I wanna try harder to be strong and take care of you, and be good to you. And this is my way of—trying to make up for having failed, in the past, as well as a symbol of my promise to do better in the future," Greg explained, picking the bag up and handing it over.

"Wait. I'm not so sure I want this. You've been great to me, Dad. You love me. I know that. You don't make fun of me, you don't tease me, talk down to me, or call me an idiot. I don't need a symbol of anything. You're my dad and you love me. I understand that, and it's all I need. You don't hafta apologize for anything."

"Maybe I don't have to, but I want to, and—besides, this is also sort of—a—I dunno. It's not a big deal. I didn't buy you a pony. It's okay to take it, and this is a one time thing. I'm glad you know that I love you and are happy and whatnot, but I still need to do a bit better. Everyone can always do better, and if I don't strive for that, then I would go from being a loving, good father, to a miserable one. Okay?" David nodded, put the bag down, and hugged his dad again, tightly, holding on for a while this time. "I love you. Go ahead. You can open that. It's okay." The younger of the House boys did as he was told, his eyes opening wider, and smiling huge.

"Oh, Dad, this is awesome! I've been looking for this one forever! Martian Manhunter, an "invisible" Martian Manhunter, and J'onn J'onzz in human form! Thanks so much," he cheered, wrapping his arms around his father again. Greg looked up, saw me, and winked. I smiled, walked back into the kitchen, and started to wash the dishes. A minute later I heard footsteps behind me, the sound of the pantry opening, and House going through the items inside. He walked up and tapped me on the shoulder, moving to my side upon realizing that I couldn't turn around with suds up to my elbows, and dishes in both hands.

"Man, we have got to be the most messed up, ridiculous family in the whole world," he exclaimed, but I just sort of shrugged, and smiled at him, weakly. He waved an Oreo in front of my face. "Want some?"

"I think, all things considered, we're doing all right. Nobody's getting hit, you only yell at me when I act like a complete moron, and David goes to a school for kids with IQs over 160, where he gets As, and won the science fair."

"Second place," he asserted, as if it were proof of _his_ point.

"Oh well in that case let's chain him to a desk whenever he's at home. Then, we can make sure he works ten times harder so that we can make sure he never, ever, ever, ever, ever gets second place at anything again," I mocked, and he wrapped his arms around my waist, tickling me. I laughed, hysterically, water and soap bubbles splashing everywhere. "Gimme one of those cookies." He sort of held it out. "Put it in my mouth, or else I'm gonna end up eating a fistful of soap." House gently placed the cookie against my lips, rubbing it in small slow circles, before pushing it inside. After I had chewed and swallowed, I told him, "I think you're supposed to do that with strawberries."

"These looked tastier. Besides, you already lost those chubby cheeks, and the little bit of belly fat you got a couple years ago. You can handle a cookie or two." This time, when he brushed up against me, I could feel his hardness pressing against my back. I smiled, turning my head to the side, and trying to kiss him. "Aren't I supposed to say Disney World or something?"

"Only if you want me to stop," I reminded him, glibly. He giggled, looking over at me, pressing his lips against my neck, and blowing a raspberry. "You wanna keep going, or not?"

"I'm good," he explained, rubbing against me again. "I, uh—can we move, like now—I mean, uh—what did we…I don't want him to walk in on us, you know?" I understood completely, and I agreed with him.

"Wanna ask for some privacy?" I already knew what he was going to say before he said it, _there's no such thing in this place_. _Not really_. "We could take a bath?" House shook his head. "I don't know what else to—I mean, I can probably wait until he goes to sleep, but you're not exactly in shape to be—well I uh," I stammered, getting stupider and stupider as each word fell from my mouth. Then, he kissed me, not rough, but possessively, and he twisted me around, pinning my body between him and the sink, face to face, his mouth on my mouth, his hands on my back, arms wrapped around my body, the two of us pressed extremely close. "We have to," I started to say, and he covered my mouth again. "You know I'm not going to shut up. So—let me finish." Naturally, he fought this, but listened, because he knew he didn't have a choice. "We have to stop, or we have to move someplace with a door, that we can close, and preferably lock. And since you gave him the bedroom. That pretty much gives us the bathroom and the closet, and since the closet is currently stuffed with your clothes, and jackets, and shoes, and guitars, and God only knows what else, I'm not recommending it as a rendezvous spot. So…" Once again my words were silenced as he pressed his mouth on top of mine. "Hey I'm not going to make you do anything. I'm just saying." Another Kiss. "House," I warned. He grunted, squirming slightly. "We don't have much wiggle room here." I winced at my own word choice. "I'm sorry, but we can't keep doing this in here, or he's gonna walk in and you're gonna hafta actually buy that pony, because he'll be one of the poor unfortunate people added to the list of individuals who have had to see me naked," I said, even though all I really wanted was for him to get down on his knees and finish me off, because at that moment, he wasn't the only one of us with that problem.

"What do you really want me to do," he asked, running a hand over his face. I sighed, patting his shoulder, and quickly kissing his cheek. I then turned around, and went back to doing the dishes. "You have a serious problem, you know that? You'll sacrifice your own happiness, health, safety, sanity, money, relationships, everything, and anything, for me, or anyone else who happens to need a little piece of you at the time. One day, I'm gonna come home from work and find your Harvard sweatshirt, some boxer shorts, a small puddle of Jimmy goo on the floor, and absolutely nothing else, to prove that James Evan Wilson ever existed."

"My mom might be willing to give you my birth certificate, and some old home movies, although seeing as you're probably gonna be massively responsible for my demise, she might be a tad bitter," I explained, trying to focus on something other than the fact that he just said Jimmy goo when I was the verge of an orgasm. I couldn't tell whether he'd done that one on purpose or not, but wouldn't put anything past him.

"I gotta go use the bathroom. If the kid asks, I'm taking a dump," he instructed. I nodded, knowing perfectly well that no one—except maybe Cameron—would ever inquire as to what he was doing in the bathroom. I grabbed his arm, quickly realizing that while there was a 98% chance that he was doing what I thought he was going to do, there was still a 2% possibility that he might actually be bothered by something I'd said to him.

"You know I didn't mean that thing about you killing me, right?"

"Melting you into a puddle and you didn't mean it, but it's still true." _I hate it when you do that_. "I'm fine. I just gotta take care of this," he pointed towards his lap, "Before I explode—and I know you think we gotta talk about this, but if even if I deal with it right this second, it's still gonna be uncomfortable."

"It hurts when you—" I didn't know how to finish that sentence. He shrugged. "House this is not one of those things I'm gonna let you lie to me about, and get away with. Answer the question."

"Sometimes, it depends on—about a million things, most of them having absolutely nothing to do with the actual process of…can I go?" I said yes, but didn't really mean it. He left, and came back a few minutes later. "Pain levels, in my leg, in my—in my—here," he said tapping his chest quickly. "Uh, sometimes I get these headaches, and, once in a while, I can't…broken bones don't mend well when it happens a lot, especially when you're a kid, especially when you're malnourished ,especially when you know not to say a word no matter how bad it hurts, and that unless Daddy says so, you can't go to the hospital. Anyway, back to the list… sometimes it hurts in my arms and legs, and hands and ribs, and jaw, and collarbone, and wherever. Depends on my mood which can be anywhere from "I wish I was dead already because I physically can not handle one more goddamn single fucking thing."" He looked around cautiously, pausing. "To not caring one way or another what happens to me, to being—how I am with Dave, whatever the word for that is, and don't say happy. I 'd give anything if I could be happy, especially if I could be happy for him, and have him know that he's the only person in the world who can make me happy, to how I am at work, to how I am when I gotta deal with abused kids at work, to how I am when I gotta deal with abusive monsters at work, to how I was on the day of my—non-dad's funeral, to how I used to feel before I met the kid, to how I felt when I was four, to how I am right now. Also gotta factor in the weather, yeah, I know weird, who I was last—with, although last fifteen years or so, not much change in that routine. Not half as much as I say there is, also what I've been looking at, porn-wise, recently, and even who the last person I spoke to was.

"Sometimes—I just, don't think it makes sense. I don't understand it much, you know, it's just like—a big mystery, only. Only, I don't think there's a solution, I don't think there's an answer. I don't know all that much about sex, I don't understand it, and don't think I ever will. Probably why I have to know absolutely everything about absolutely everything else." I turned around, drying my hands, and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. "What are you doing?"

"I love you. And you—I'm not…I won't. I don't know what to tell you. Is there some way for me to give you, to help with that," I asked, rubbing his back in small circles. House shrugged. "I could try and—I don't suppose I'd help any if I tried to explain it to you, would I?" This received a small chuckle. "You'd tell me if I ever did anything to hurt you, right?" He shrugged, but I think that was more because he didn't want to admit that he liked my idea, something Greg did a lot, especially if he didn't see any value in the suggestion.

"What do you mean explain it," he finally asked after a couple of minutes. I knew he wanted a real explanation of what I was going to explain, but I decided to mess with him a little, safely.

So, I said, "Sex," simply, and smiled when he looked dumbfounded.

"What like the birds and the bees talk?" He paused thinking. _You could just say no, like a normal person,_ I thought, and then wondered if he could. "Hey I know, let's bring Dave in here and then you can screw us _both _up at the same time. Save me the trouble of having to do it when he's 13, and you have the added bonus of saving me from doing it, which—if I do hafta is gonna—I dunno. Sorry Jimmy. If I could stop doing this, if I could control it, I'd do it for you. Okay first I'd stop for the kid, but you too. It's a close second. I just can't turn it off."

"It's alright," I whispered, patting him between the shoulders, and kissing his head. "You know what, you're not gonna believe this, but I don't want you to. Not permanently anyway. Don't give me that look. Other people are boring, and they expect me to be nice and boring around them. At least you don't lie to try and make me feel better about crap that no one can do anything about. At least you're fun. Maybe if you ask me after we just had a fight, I'd probably be more willing to agree that you should turn it off once in a while, but you can't, and I don't care."

"Yes you do," he explained, in that annoying, _I know absolutely everything about everything _tone. I sighed. "See, you're annoyed with me right now, and less than five minutes ago I was talking about my daddy holding me down and raping me." I sighed. "See. How annoying am I?"

"I was gonna say messed up, but yeah, okay, you are a little annoying, but it's one of the things I like about you. Hey," I called, pulling away a little, and nodding towards the kitchen doorway. "You ready for some dessert?"

"I forgot to tell my dad something. I get to go to state championship for science fair, and all the kids who won 1st through 4th place have to do to their presentations in front of a whole bunch of different people, teachers, administrators, and other people—I forget who exactly, it says on the paper I brought home. Anyway, two people can come with me. Most people are bringing their mom and dads, and I was wondering if you would come," he said, watching Greg pull away from me a little, and move towards the table.

"Sure." Greg leaned over to look at the paper, standing next to his son, with one hand on the kid's shoulder. "Let's see, March 31st, 2009 at 2:00. Sure now problem."

"That's a Tuesday, you know." He seemed worried about this, like his father would say no if it meant missing work…or General Hospital. House senior, clapped the boy on the back, gently.

"Hmm, let's see, look up people's runny noses, while they sneeze in my face, or watch my kid kick ass at the state science fair? Boy, that's gonna be a tough one. Hmm. I might have to sleep on it." He paused, watching the boy's reaction. "I was being sarcastic. There's not a thing in the world that could keep me from seeing this thing, okay Little Man?"

"What if you have a case?" _I can't believe you didn't see that coming, _I thougt. "What if it's a really big emergency?"

"Then, whoever it is, will just have to wait and not get any sicker wile I watch you do your presentation. You know, the 31st is pretty soon right?" David nodded. "Wanna practice it in front of me? Just so—I don't think you're going to make any mistakes, but I used to do magic tricks when I was about your age, and I didn't have a lot of friends, or things to do—not that you haven't got friends or a busy schedule…but, I found that the best thing to do, was to practice over and over and over and over until you could do the trick in your sleep. But, uh don't be overly confident either, because if you do that, then you're probably gonna make a mistake and get all freaked out about it, which makes you more nervous, which makes you make more mistakes. Um—the most important thing is to be calm, and remember that even if you do make a small mistake, or even if you totally screw up, it's no big deal. Number one: you can always start over, and nobody's going to mark you down, and most importantly, 2. I love you no matter what. I wouldn't of cared if you made a paper mache volcano with pieces falling off the sides, and vinegar leaking out the bottom." Both House boys laughed.

"We had a volcano at the science fair at my school. Of course it was actually a scale model of Saint Helen's and it ran on batteries and stuff, shooting smoke and "lava" into the air, and the guy put it in this glass case so it wouldn't make a huge mess. He had a picture of the real explosion; the thing looked just like it. He got 6th place. Technically it's only an honorable mention, but he still gets to come to the science museum with us in May."

"On a field trip," House asked, sitting down, but pulling the kid close to him all the same. David nodded. "Well, you're gonna hafta get me the date so I can get it off of work too, and come as a chaperone." Dave made his_ don't you trust me _face. "Oh yeah, it's just—science museum sounds like fun. I wanna go. Jimmy can I go? Please?" He drew the word out long, and awkwardly, like a toddler. I shrugged, _why not? _ "Tank Ou Mommy." He beamed up at me. Dave giggled.

"Hey, Dad, just relax, and remember 1. I will always love you, and you will always be my daddy, and most important, 2. if you promise you're gonna come to my field trip, you actually hafta come, and stay the whole time and not really talk on your phone about an "important case" or I will break rule number one," Dave mocked. I laughed, hugging the two of them close, and kissing the older of the House boys on the forehead.

"Don't worry, Greg, I'll always love you," I explained, kissing his face again, and smiling at him gently. He rolled his eyes. "Don't make that face; we both know you need to hear that about once an hour."

"Shh," he whisper shouted, covering the kid's ears. "Not in front of the _child_." I don't think he was worried about that part. He had a feeling that I was going to say something else following it, and was more worried about David hearing that part. "And I only hafta hear it four or five times a day, tops."

"Sorry, my mistake; won't happen again," I offered, holding my hands out, palms up, like I was defending myself. Greg sighed and leaned his head back against my chest. "David, it's past 9:30. You should go to bed." He nodded, and ran off. He came back a second later. "You okay?"

"Yeah, it's just that my dad and I are reading _The Once and Future King, _and we are supposed to do the next chapter tonight," he explained, pulling his t-shirt up over his head, and tossing it on the floor. He quickly picked it up though. "I can wait until tomorrow."

"Somebody will be in there in a minute," I promised. He nodded, and went back to getting changed, brushing his teeth, and climbing into bed with the book. "You want me to take care of that?" I meant the bedtime story. He shook his head. "Are you sure you're okay to do it?"

"I dunno, but I made a commitment. Gotta do it." I wanted to tell him something like, _no you don't._ "Besides, this is like my favorite time of the day, sort of. Except for when you and I chill out either at night or in the morning and relax together. That makes me feel alright too. Besides, we're almost finished with the book, so I'll be fine for a few minutes. Just relax, Jimmy. I'm fine, and you can go back to "re-parenting" me when I'm done being a parent for a while. Maybe you can fix Dave too, when he wakes up."

"Nope, sorry, that's your job, Daddy." He looked at me for a minute, and then smiled, nodded, and stood up, heading for the bedroom. "And Greg, I love you."


	11. Science Fair

AN: so I was originally planning on only doing two more chapters, but then they killed off Kutner and I had to deal with that, so probably just two more chapters after this, and then this story is finished.

"Unless you're going to do something else to try and cure me, don't you have a funeral to go to?" House trying to push me away meant that it was the last thing in the world he wanted. As he said this, my mind flashed back twenty four hours.

The day it happened, I called the babysitter and asked her to stay late, because we wouldn't be making it home that night. Luckily she said sure, Mondays were her day off. I then spoke to David, and told him what had happened.

He said, "Is my dad okay," before anything else. Then, when I didn't respond, he added, "what about you?" _Smart kid, _I thought, _sensitive too_. "I'll be okay. It's just a—just tonight, right? He'll be back home tomorrow night?" I nodded, stupidly, and then said 'I think so, probably, yes.' "The science fair is on Monday, is he still gonna be able to go?"

"I don't know," I finally came up with. Suicides always bothered House. The guy had tried once, in college. He came incredibly close to death, found no comfort there, and now he couldn't understand how anyone could.

"I saw the white light—or whatever you wanna call it—and everything, but I didn't feel good, or warm, or happy, or loved or anything. It was exactly the same there—then my idiot roommate came in, started shaking me and—this is stupid, don't wanna talk about it anymore," was all he'd say, at first. He later told me he'd refused to talk to the psychologists at the hospital where he was taken, and as a result, was kept on the mandatory 72 hour hold. At that point, he said just enough to convince them he wasn't a danger to himself or others, and left. "Therapy works for some people, I'm not one of them,_" _he told me another time.

He let me take him away from Kutner's place and out for drinks. I took him to a hotel room, but he wouldn't talk about what had happened. Greg continued to insist that Kutner was murdered. "It's the only thing that makes sense." I let him do what he needed to do, to hang on. After three hours, five beers, and six shots of tequila, he finally opened up about his own suicide attempt. "I just realized that…the thing is, it didn't make me feel any better. I don't think anyone feels better. Not that any of this matters."

"Even if you're right, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, the case is closed. Nobody's going to listen." _They will if I have proof, that's what you're about to tell me. Only you aren't going to find any. And when this finally hits you, it's gonna hurt that much worse, because you can't, or won't, deal with it, _that's what I thought, while he was working at pulling himself together, trying to tell me that he was okay, trying to tell me that everything was going to be alright, trying to tell me that he really didn't care, trying to act like it didn't hurt. I was just starting to get a good buzz on.

"They'll have to believe me when I prove it," he told me, and I said nothing. Greg watched my eyes, and my hand rubbing against my lips, before saying anything else. "You don't believe me! You think I'm making it all up to make myself feel better about screwing up!" He tried to stand up, but fell backwards, onto the hotel room bed. I got up; sat at his side, asked if he was hurt, and waited for him to start screaming at me. "Okay, let's assume I'm wrong, and you're right." _At least you're moving forward, you only do the 'let's assume…' when you're close to giving in. _We drank some more.

"Assuming I'm ri-ri-assuing I'm not wrong," I said, giving up on trying to say the word right after slurring it several times. "What then?" He knew I was humoring him, but let me keep going.

"I don't know. If you are, it means I screwed up, _again_! I didn't see it. If I did, what would it mean? What do I do? How do I…what—it's not…" He didn't break down and sob into my chest, while we rocked back and fort like characters in some movie He didn't scream and throw a bible—or anything else—through the TV set. He didn't scream, fall to his knees, raise his fist, and curse the heavens. He just stared over at me, that usual, heart-broken look in his eyes, and said, "what did I do wrong?'

"Nothing," I explained, gently, and then I wrapped my arm around his shoulder, and the two of us lie down, on our sides, and stay there. "He didn't want help; he didn't want you, me, Cuddy, his parents, Thirteen, Foreman, Chase, Cameron, or Taub to help him. If he had, he would have said something. Done something. Talked to someone."

"An idiot in life, makes sense he'd do something stupid, screw up…I just didn't. He isn't—wasn't'. I don't know how to talk about this, which is obviously the reason you got me drunk, the reason you took me some place where Dave couldn't walk in on us. You expect me to talk to you, deal with this somehow, get over it, and…whatever. But I got news for you, genius; I'm not falling for it." He lay still for a while, quietly, and (eventually) fell asleep. This morning he was still silent, only now angry too. House went to work; continued on with his Kutner must have been murdered crusade. Only after last night, he wouldn't let me help, talk to, or be around him. Until this afternoon.

Unfortunately, even now, after his case had been solved, he refused to say anything real to me. I sat down beside him on the sofa, and patted him on the shoulder.

"If I have to go to one more funeral this year, I might have to shoot myself—not a life ending injury granted, just a flesh wound, maybe in the leg. That way you and I can have matching limps. That would be cool, wouldn't it? Better than a wedding ring." Greg gave me an odd look, but just sort of nodded, _okay you can sit there. For now. _ "I love you, Greg. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you, now or ever. And if you're…hurting, I can make it better. It won't go away, not completely, but it won't—nevermind. That's another issue altogether and we can deal with it, in time, but what happened, it's not your fault. It's not anybody's fault. When these things happen, everyone feels what you're feeling right now, but in this case—don't roll your eyes at me, this is extremely important—fine. You wanna go get drunk again?" House shook his head. "You wanna talk?" _Nope. _"Go up on the roof and drop water balloons full of chocolate cake mix on people's heads?" This time he cracked a small smile.

"Can we actually do that?" I showed him how to put dry cake mix into the balloons before adding the water, and then shake them up, one at a time, until we had four colorful orbs, full of a dark, thick gooey mess. "We should call David. He'd like this." I nodded, picked up the phone and had Susan drop him off on her way to night school. We hid the first couple balloons in the pockets of my lab coat and headed to the roof. There was a spigot up there, so we'd be able to fill the rest of them up there.

"Are you sure this is okay," David asked, picking one up, and rolling it over in his hand. His father shrugged, and picked up another one, walked to the edge and threw it, as hard and as far as he possibly could. It landed right on top of a bench, and the brown mess splattered everywhere. "Nice shot, Dad!"

"You been working on your presentation?" The boy nodded. "You wanna throw a balloon with just water in it?" He shrugged. "If we get caught Cuddy'll lecture me for about ten minutes, but nothing else. As long as we don't hit anybody directly."

"Why," Dave wondered.

"This is pretty much just for today," he responded. "She knows that pulling crap stunts is pretty much how I cope. Plus half the hospital's at the funeral parlor right now, so (except for the patients) this place is pretty much empty, and since they're all inside being sick, there's not much chance of getting caught."

"How often do you do this?" Once again Greg didn't feel like responding to his son's question. He shrugged. "That means a lot," he explained, looking up at me, a small smile on his face.

"Oh is that so, huh?" House senior got down on one knee and started to tickle the kid, lightly. David laughed, squirming a little bit. "Is that what you think? Is it? Huh? Huh," he teased, allowing himself to relax and laugh some. He quickly pulled the boy in for a long, tight hug, and held onto him for what seemed like an incredible amount of time. At first I didn't think anything of it, and began looking for a target for my first cake mix balloon, but then after a minute or two had gone by, I started to worry.

"Hey, why don't you go down to the third floor vending machine and get yourself a soda. It's broken. If you put in 2 singles and press the root beer button you get a free Mr. Pibb. I need to talk to your dad for a second, okay?" I leaned down next to the House boys and put my hand on the older one's shoulder, carefully peeling them apart. He let me hold him, and the two of us sort of collapsed on the ground, silently. The younger one stared up at me angrily, as he wiped a few of his father's tears off his neck. "You can come right back. He just needs a minute. I promise, when you get back, you can throw one of these puppies at my head, okay?"

"He's worried about me, scared that something bad is going to happen to me, that I'm gonna grow up to be like him—or worse. And your solution is to send me away and—what, yell at him," the boy growled. I smiled and sighed at the same point. He had a point. I don't know what I would have done if left alone with House, but it probably wouldn't have helped much. I watched him pushed me back a tad, grab his father's arms, wrapping them around his body, and curled up in Greg's lap, like a much younger kid. "I am doing okay, Dad; I am. I'm happy, and safe, and I haven't had a nightmare in almost 3 months. I can't tell you that everything is always gonna be perfect, but I'm doing great. Really," he swore.

"Okay," he said, leaning back against me. "Now go that soda, I do need a minute to—get back to—to uh…I'm not sure what to say here, but I need a second, okay?" Dave held his hand out for money, and I gave him a 5 and three 1s. House let me keep holding him and, after a minute or two of breathing through clenched teeth, he finally let his guard down, and cried silently, weakly. He was so quiet, so still, and the tears stopped so quickly, I could almost believe that it hadn't actually happened. "Thanks for…uh, well this. And last night too," he whispered, before standing up and grabbing the last full water balloon from me.

"Hang on, that one's mine," I insisted, taking it out of his hand. I was fully expecting him to fight me on this, but he didn't. He let me step up in front of the ledge, aim for Cuddy's parking space, and throw. Unfortunately, mine didn't go anywhere near it's mark, but landed on the sidewalk, near the front door, just below and in front of us.

"That was pathetic. I know you're Jewish and all, but _come on, _man up. You've got patients who can throw better tan that. Probably better than you in bed, too," he mocked, becoming more and more like himself than. "Make me cake balloons. I'm a dude; I don't bake," he informed me, and stood over my shoulder, watching. A minute passed. "You think he's okay?" He meant, do you think he got lost or abducted?

I said, "I'm sure Dave just ran down to the cafeteria for an ice cream or something." He nodded. "And he is okay...in general, too. You've got a strong kid there, and you're doing everything right."

"Apparently stuff like that doesn't always matter." He didn't quite snap at me, but I think he was still more upset than he would have liked, and—as usual—wanted to understand something terrible that couldn't be explained. "Thinking about selling the motorcycle." I was hoping to hear this statement last week, when I thought he'd damn near killed himself on the thing. After a day or so, I calmed down, and was willing to let him keep driving the stupid thing, if it could make him happy. "Never should of bought the damn thing in the first place."

"Ordinarily I would agree with you, but at the moment I think you're being an idiot. If you were selling the motorcycle because you don't want it anymore, or it's broken, or you wanna buy a new car, or even because you actually believe that it's more dangerous for you as a human being to have that than a two ton car, then I'd be right behind you, but that's not what this is about. You think you can give him a life without any pain, loss, or suffering by giving up something that makes you happy. The bike doesn't change anything," I explained, handing him a large green balloon. He threw it at, and almost hit a fire hydrant.

"Did we get one of those magic fortune cookies that makes people switch minds like in that old movie, where the kid and her mom become each other? Or, have I completely lost my mind and we both started arguing on the opposite side of things we usually do?" He grabbed another balloon, and threw it as he said the last couple of words. This one didn't go anywhere near where he was aiming. "I can't believe that you're actually telling me—the crippled, irresponsible drug addict—to keep the two-wheeled death machine." Greg grunted, leaving over the ledge a little, waiting to see what I said.

"Sorry, but I just—okay, I admit it. I always thought it was a bad idea for you to have that thing, even before the kid came into your life. Now, that being said, you love your bike. Not in the same way you love David, but….I doesn't think you should be making a decision like this right now." I sighed, and tried to throw my next balloon past his most recent failure.

"I'll make you a deal. If you can throw your next one farther than I throw mine, I'll let you figure out what I should or shouldn't do with the stupid thing," he offered. _Yeah, now there's a brilliant idea. _ "You think you're too much of a spaz to beat me? Okay, what if I throw left handed, with my eyes closed, and facing the door instead of parking lot?" I said okay. House turned around, put the balloon in his palm, squeezed his eyes shut, and tossed the ball as hard as he could. Even when he wanted to lose he wouldn't lose on purpose. The balloon landed with a large splat, leaving a big black stain in the grass, a good 30 feet away.

Greg stood behind me when it was my turn to throw, and he put his hand on my arm, guiding it into position, helping me wind back, while simultaneously rubbing his crotch against my ass. "There you go," he explained, helping me practice toss, without letting go. I felt myself smiling, as I pitched, throwing the thing with all my might. Even with his assistance, and interference, I didn't do too well. My balloon sailed down, falling, falling, falling, not doing too well, and yet, somehow—perhaps magically—it still landed a few feet in front and to the left of his. "Now, can I sell the stupid thing?" I sighed. "You said I was too confused or grief-stricken or whatever to make up my mind about this, but you're not in that position. You're a neutral party, who just happens to have been telling me that I should get rid of the goddamn thing for the past three years. Tell me to do it so can go back to normal, okay?"

"Alright, alright, if that's what will make you happy, you can do whatever you want, but think about this for a minute." I'm not sure what I would have said if I ad been given the chance to finish, but I wasn't. David came running up the stairs and pushed the door to the roof open, holding a grease-stained paper bag in one hand, and a large paper cup and straw in the other.

"Hey, Little Man, guess what?" The kid shrugged, taking a sip of his drink, and smiling up at us. "I'm selling my bike. We're gonna have a good two or three thousand bucks to throw around," he explained to the kid, walking over and reaching into the bag for a French fry. "This okay?" The boy nodded.

"Can I get a Mongoose," he asked, taking another sip. I watched them, mildly confused. I had no idea what they were talking about. "It's a type of BMX bike, one of the best. They're actually not that expensive; I just figured that since he was talking about money and bikes, it was a good time to ask." Greg looked over at me, as if asking for advice. I shrugged.

"Can you ride a bicycle? It's just that…I can't teach you, 'cuz I can't run. Sorry, that's probably something a dad's supposed to do, and if I could, I would," he offered. David nodded, and smiled, hugging him.

"My mom taught me right before she got sick. I didn't do any riding last summer, because we were kind of busy, and I didn't—I didn't want to rub your nose in it. I know it's stilly, but it was when we first met, and I didn't know you that well," the kid explained, smiling, holding his arms up a little, defensively. "I've been looking them up on the computer. I had a big growth spurt this year, so even if I knew where my mom put my old bike, I need a new one anyway."

"Well, it's getting close to the summer time, and a kid needs a bike. So, I don't see any reason why not—what about you," House senior asked me. I nodded; he was right. In when I was a kid, I used to take my bike out all the time, nearly every day of summer break. "You can get any bike you like—well, no you can't have a dirt bike, that's the only—and I've seen $5000 bicycles. You can't have one that costs more than my car. Otherwise, anything you want." It was almost cute watching him realize those things, especially because I hadn't thought of either one.

"So how come it's okay for you to have a motorcycle but not for me to have a mini bike," he mocked. Greg blushed a little, and looked away. He probably would have said something like, _well, I am getting rid of the thing _but Dave was only teasing. He didn't mind. "It's okay, Dad. I don't even want one. Just show me how to throw one of these water balloons all the way to the parking lot, okay?" Greg smiled, and helped Dave climb up onto the ledge.

"Um, I don't think that's such a good idea," I said, nervously, pulling him down. Both of the House boys stared at me, in very different ways. The younger one was somewhat worried, but for the most part intrigued to see what would happen next, while the older was almost furious with me.

"You think I would let my kid fall off a roof," he practically screamed at me. I think he was trying to make this into a bigger deal than it was, because it was easy to fight about _this. _ "I was gonna have you hold on to him so he didn't go—so he'd be safe. Is there a milk crate for him to stand on? Kid's not tall enough to get a good angle going." I found a box, and stood behind him, with my arms loosely around his waist to make sure he didn't fall forward, even though I wasn't really worried about that. Greg stood behind the kid, and did a similar thing for his arm, only he had been slightly more sensual with me, his body pressed up against mine, real close, non-throwing arm on my hip—at one point even dipping into my pocket—whereas with the kid, he was cautious, conservative. He only wanted my balloon to go a bit further than his, but the kid had more natural talent than me, and there was no competition issue so he was trying to get the thing to go as far as possible. "Now see, that is Dr. Cuddy's parking space over there. Think we can hit it?"

"Nah, besides, she'd probably get really mad and make you work clinic duty on Monday," he suggested, and was greeted with a _fair enough _gesture from his father. "Think you can hit the bench again?" Greg nodded, excitedly. "How about a different one?" _Sure, whatever you want. _They threw, and nearly hit their target. Maybe fifteen more minutes (and 5 balloons) later, the House boys were bored. So, we packed up our stuff, and drove home. Greg and Dave sat in the back of the car on the way to our apartment, and discussed bicycles, tires, traction, mountain VS street bikes, color, materials, shock absorbers, 10 speeds VS 12 speeds, custom VS store bought, home assembly VS already put together, everything I had ever heard about bikes, and then some. They teased each other, told jokes, laughed, and whispered about something I couldn't hear.

Back at home, things returned to a level of normalcy, fairly constant to where we had been before. I made dinner. The House boys ate, did Dave's homework, practiced his presentation, played about 30 minutes of video games, read a chapter from their book of the week, _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, before the kid went to sleep. House returned to the den, turned on the TV, climbed into bed, and sat silently staring at the screen. I finished the dishes, and walked over, sitting next to him, a bottle of beer in each hand.

"Thought you might want something to take the edge off," I offered, but Greg didn't respond. He popped a couple Vicodin. "You can say no. I don't mind. Really. You can scream at me, about how I'm supposed to be the sensitive one, who notices those things, tell me this is all my fault. Of course by that point, you'd just be projecting. Listen, Greg, this is important. You solve cases that nobody else can. You save people that would otherwise die. That woman today, if you hadn't been there her husband would have given her his liver, died, and she'd be gone too."

"Cameron's the one who figured out that what's his face didn't have lung cancer, and wasn't going to die. Besides, it didn't matter. I didn't help what's her name either. And if this whole speech is to tell me that nobody can see everything, and know everything, fix everything, you might as well stop. I'm _not _a moron, just a supposedly brilliant doctor who is supposed to know everything and yet almost never does. I'm gonna quit. These stupid jackasses come in and think that I can magically fix them and they can keep all their stupid little secretes like—opps I told you I went to Hawaii but I was actually in Rio, but hey it's no big deal, they're practically the same place, right? And it's not like this was a one time thing, everybody keeps pulling this crap! And I can't handle it anymore. I just—why do people have to be so fucking stupid?"

"Maybe they're scared," I offered, knowing that it wouldn't make any difference. He was in one of his moods, and needed to vent, or cry, or track down Kutner in the afterlife and drag him back here so he could scream at/ drill him with all those unanswered questions. "Maybe they hurt, and don't want people to see that, judge them for it, treat them like a freak. Maybe you're right. Maybe they are idiots, and they just don't know any better. But if it weren't for you, all those liars would continue to tell their lies, until the day they croak from a disease that was probably treatable, probably curable. You an see through the bullshit, and until you teach Foreman, or Thirteen, or Taub, or me to think like you—we're gonna need your help. I know it sucks, and we all expect too much from you, but you are the Bruce Lee of diagnostics, and figuring out when people are lying. You _are _the best. You're the only one who can do what you do. But, let's make a deal, okay? If you get overwhelmed again, walk away, come to my office, and we'll have a codeword. You say it; I'll lock the doors, pull the blinds down, sit with you, and we can scream, or talk, or cry, or whatever you want. Whatever you need. Or does that sound like the most ridiculously stupid thing you've ever heard?" House sighed, rolled his eyes and leaned back, laying his head on the pillow, exhaustedly. "You woke up last night after I fell asleep didn't you?" He shrugged. "How long have you been awake?"

"I'd say close to 48 hours. Too bad, I'm getting close to the hallucination point but I'm too tired to enjoy them. Probably be out cold in ten minutes." I nodded, pulling his body close to mine, and moving the beer bottles to the little nightstand. "And your idea doesn't completely suck. Can't do it in the middle of a DDX, but—uh, whatever I'm supposed to tell you in this situation, _that_."

"I'm proud of you, Greg. I know how hard this is for you, and I'm sorry that there's nothing more I can do. I'd like it if—when you're ready—you could maybe tell me how you're doing?" He shrugged. "You're the most articulate person I have ever met. And you do know everything, just not how to apply that knowledge into emotional situations. Just like I can always figure out exactly what people need and give it to them, but am completely hopeless at diagnostics, and poker, and keeping up when you and David have an intense conversation, or foreign languages, or—okay, okay, stop making that face. You get the point. I'm sorry. I was trying to be nice, because you're in more pain than you usually are and you don't know how to deal with this. I think you're actually worse off than you were when Foreman got sick from that cop's place."

"Yeah, 'cuz _he's _still alive. Plus…Kutner was a moron, but he was funny, and occasionally clever, creative, great with the patients, and he understood some of my metaphors. You've known me for twenty years and _still _don't get any of them. Maybe I should just fire them all and start again, get another 40 new applicants."

"Again with this, didn't you say the same thing when you brought Dave into work with you?" He shrugged. _It's different, _he almost certainly thought. "I think they are going to see what they want to see, even if you broke down crying in your office."

"I just don't want them to know how messed up I am. But I—not that it matters. There aren't any people—I don't know what I'm saying. That's why I keep stopping and starting." _It's okay, you didn't do anything wrong, _I wanted to tell him, but didn't get the chance. "I just…I want it to. I wanna shake the guy and scream, and tell him how pathetic and stupid he is, but then I remember, and I feel like," he started to tell me, paused, sucked in his breath, sighed, repeated the procedure twice, and finally, started talking again. "Like I'm a monster or something." _Too bad you stopped seeing the shrink, she'd know what to say here, and you might actually believe her when she says but you're not. You might believe it when she tells you that having those feelings, makes you just like the rest of us. _

"You're not," I said, firmly. "You have a cruel streak, and you aren't the best employer in the world, but you aren't the worst, and you _are _just as human as the rest of us. And uh," I started to tell him that this wasn't his fault, again, but House had already fallen asleep. "You're not a monster," I whispered into his ear, hoping the words would reach him, somehow. "And it's going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay. David's fine. You don't have to worry about him ending up like you or Kutner. Now just relax, and you're going to be okay."

After a couple of days, Greg stopped moping around, but he hadn't come anywhere near forgiving himself for what happened to Kutner. I knew it, he knew it; Hell David probably knew it, and yet there wasn't much any of us could do about it. I decided that the two of us should play hooky from work until at least Tuesday, mostly because neither one of us was in any shape to be around other people (okay maybe I was, but I didn't feel like it) but also because David had a long weekend, Thursday and Friday off, and the kid was very nervous about his presentation. I also knew that the older of the House boys did better when he had something to focus his attention on, especially in these situations. So, I let them get totally obsessed with perfecting the poster, the boy's speech, preparing for every question, any possible way that their results or methods could be mistaken by someone who hadn't spent months dealing with the material. They spent hours refining, practicing, and perfecting it. By Monday morning, I was starting to think that I might not ever be able to hear the word teeth again without wanting to rip my hair out.

Sunday night they stayed up late, and fell asleep at the kitchen table. I hated having to wake them, but knew that the older one could not handle nine hours in a hard, uncomfortable chair, and the little one needed a good nights sleep before his big day. We tucked David in, set up the walkie-talkies, and climbed into bed. "How are you holding up," I asked, after a few minutes of watching him stare silently at the television set. I hadn't actually bothered to bring it up between that afternoon on the roof.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered, laying down, closing his eyes, and pulling the covers up around his neck. A minute went by. "Oh you mean, because of Kutner…killing himself? Yeah. Why wouldn't I be," he asked, opening his eyes again, but attempting to make himself look tired. He was tired, but could have easily stayed up another hour or so to talk to me about this.

"Because last week you told his parents it was their fault, and a few hours later, you took up a crusade to prove that he had been murdered, and then you sort of freaked out, got rid of your motorcycle, and now you're doing the whole quiet, nervous thing. I'm worried about you. I think you blame yourself, because you didn't see it."

"Oh, shut up," he muttered, exhaustedly. "I'm tired. Can I go to bed or do you want to psychoanalyze my need for sleep too?" I smiled, patting him on the arm, gently, and letting it drop for now. He wasn't getting much better, but he wasn't worse either. I could always tell when he was about to go off the deep end because he'd talk about what was bothering him, sarcastically; the worse he made fun of something, the more he needed help to deal with or understand it. Otherwise, he either didn't talk about it at all, or he'd mock it less, or—if he was doing really well—he might even discuss the subject seriously.

"Goodnight, House," I told him, and the two of us went to sleep. The next morning I woke up to the alarm clock buzzing. I turned it off, and climbed out of bed groggily, and wandered into the kitchen. Greg and David were sitting at the table, heads close together, leaning over something. I could hear soft smirking sounds, but they were whispering, so I couldn't make out much else. "What's going on in here," I asked, standing behind them. Dave sat up straight, looking right at me. "You okay, you're looking a little…tired."

"That's usually polite grown up talk for you look like crap," Greg explained, "but in Jimmy's case he actually means it. Go brush your hair, and teeth, and wash your face, okay?" The boy nodded, and left. "He got me up at 6:00. Kid's really nervous, but he won't admit it." _Boy I know how you feel, _I thought. "I tired to explain that I'm proud of him no matter what he does. Even said I don't care how he does, as long as he tries his best, but…I dunno. I think he sees how I'm a bit of a perfectionist—or well, I'm sort of perfect, especially with science stuff, and he feels like he should be perfect too. Or something. I'm still trying to figure it out; I've never seen him like this before."

"Maybe he's worried aobut you," I accidentally let myself say, and instantly regretted the words. _Damnit, why did I just do that? _Greg stared into my eyes for a moment before he responded, but even then, the guy just shrugged. "Maybe you could help him think of something to help him relax a little." I watched him for a moment, worried that he might laugh at me, and my idea, but he didn't.

"Good idea," Greg said, not in the least bit sarcastically. We ate breakfast, packed up and climbed into the car, carefully placing the poster board in the trunk, along with Dave's note cards. The House boys sat in the back talking again; only this time I could hear them. "Hey, you alright," he asked the kid.

"I'm a little nervous, but it's not a big deal. I felt the same way last year when my class had to sing in front of the whole school and everyone's parents at the holiday concert last year, like my stomach's doing back flips," the boy explained, brushing the hair out of his face with his hand. I heard his farther laugh, and knew he was probably shaking his head; _yeah, _he was most likely thinking, _I know how that goes. _"What do you do when you're nervous, or scared?" There was a fairly long pause between this question and the response. I had a feeling the man was, probably, uncomfortable answering that particular question. Ironically enough. "Dad?"

"Yeah, I know, I'm just not sure how to say this and not…you know," he said, ashamed. "I'm not exactly the best person to ask about this sort of thing. I don't do so good when I have to. Let me try again, I don't handle my own emotional problems so well." I could see the two of them in the rearview mirror; David hugged his father.

"But you don't seem so bad," the kid told him sadly. Greg shrugged. I didn't know what say in this situation, but desperately wanted to help him. "You don't seem nervous to me, and I've only ever seen you really upset about 5 or 6 times." There was another hug. House senior sighed, leaned his head back, against the seat, and put his hands behind his head. "You don't have to tell me, if you're not okay with it."

"I am sort of okay with it, but—uh. I guess I just didn't really want you to now about this yet. I usually deal with stress, and stuff, by either drinking, or taking my pills. Of course, they only calm me down, because I'm. I, uh, well, that's not a good way to deal with anything, but when you get to the point that I'm at, then you…I mean a person, not you personally…they can sometimes be the only way to get by." David hugged his dad once more. "Thanks Big Guy. That does help. Maybe I should just come over and get a hug from you or Jimmy whenever I'm feeling nervous."

"Your leg hurts, Dad; you can't stop taking your medicine. We've talked about this before. Even I know it. Don't worry about it. You're doing okay," the kid explained. Greg shrugged. "Thanks for talking to me; it does help a little bit."

"You know, as long as this doesn't become a regular thing, I don't see any reason why I can't help you out this one time. Maybe I could make you feel a little bit less nervous, okay?" I was extremely uncomfortable, unsure where this might be heading, but pretty sure it wasn't going to be someplace good.

"How are you gonna do that," the kid wondered aloud. Greg was probably blushing a little bit. I was getting more and more uncomfortable by the minute. By this point we were in the parking lot, and I was looking for a space.

"I could give you a pill," House offered, and I nearly slammed into a green SUV. "Well, half a Vicodin, anything more than that'll knock you on your ass, but uh. For a kid your age, height and weight, half a pill would calm you down just enough to get you through today." I managed to pull into a spot without getting all three of us maimed or killed.

"House," I shouted, turning around in my seat to face them. Both boys looked over at me innocently, holding their hands up and shrugging their shoulders. I saw a small smile in the corners of Dave's mouth, but didn't think anything of it at the time.

"What," they both asked, at almost the exact same time. I stared at them angrily. I was furious. I couldn't believe that Greg, of all people, would offer a narcotic to his child. I was confused, and angry, and incredibly concerned. David tried to stay calm, but after a couple of minutes of my staring them down, or trying to, he cracked, and started laughing.

"Man, you're no good at this whole prank thing," House told him, giving him a little jab in the ribs. They both laughed. I must have still been staring, because he then added, "we've been planning that all weekend. Though, I have to admit I was sort of hoping you wouldn't respond, wouldn't believe I'd actually do _that_." I blushed, and looked away. "Oh well, your expression was priceless, totally worth it, right Little Man?" Dave nodded, and smiled. They climbed out of the car, grabbing his stuff before heading for the door. "You feel a little better now?"

"Yeah," the kid admitted. "You were right. Pulling pranks on Wilson is much funnier; I calmed down a lot too. Thanks, Dad, I really needed this, and thanks to you too, Wilson, it wouldn't of worked if you hadn't a believed me."

I smiled a little, and followed after them as we all headed towards the building where the State Science Fair was being held, but not before Greg pulled me aside and asked, "how fucking irresponsible do you think I am?" There was a long silence. "…As a parent. I couldn't care less what you think of that otherwise, but did you actually—I think I have to stop talking to or sleeping with you or something for a while." _Yeah, well I think I can hold out longer than you, _I thought.

"You can try," I taunted, leaning really close and blowing in his ear. Unfortunately, he didn't react the way I expected him to, by which I mean he didn't react at all. "Or—um, maybe I shouldn't—did I do something?"

"Besides assume that I'm messed up enough to give a kid—my kid who by the way is probably a lot more susceptible to addiction than say…you, 'cuz he's unlucky enough to have me for a dad—powerful narcotics for a little bit of public speaking jitters, _and _trying to get me to make out with you in front of a bunch of people, which would potentially embarrass, nay humiliate, the child? No, you didn't do a thing."

"Don't play all high and mighty with me, Mr. Man," I said, fearing I was making a bigger and bigger mistake with every word, mostly because House was looking at me like I was a moron. "You were the one who—I nearly crashed the car because you said…"

"You're kinda proving my point, there, Jimbo. You 'nearly crashed the car' because you are stupid enough to believe that I'd give the little one Vicodin. For crying out loud, what exactly do you think of me?" I didn't know what to say, mostly because I didn't know what he wanted to hear, and also, a little, because I never thought he actually gave a crap what I thought about anything, least of all him.

"Since when do you care what other people think," I asked, idiotically. He gave me that look. "I just said something really bad didn't I?" David, who had only half been paying attention, nodded, taking his dad's hand.

"I don't…I just—and if you tell anyone about this, I will skin you alive, or inject you with Marburg—I actually, sort of like you, and I sort of, maybe, care a little, tiny, itsy bitsy microscopic bit what you think of me, and would really appreciate it if you didn't think I was a total jerk. Now if you'll excuse us, David and I are going to go inside and get his project set up." I followed silently. "Hey," House said, kneeling in front of the boy just as the judges were coming around the corner. "I love you, and you did a great job. Nothing else matters. This is supposed to be fun, a game, and if that's all you let it be, you'll relax, and the judges will see that, which is gonna make them think you're even more amazing than you actually are, which is gonna get you a better score, which in turn will raise your confidence, which—well, I think you get the point, right?" Dave nodded, and hugged his father. "Good luck Little Man," he said, before taking a step back and letting the kid do his thing.


	12. Six Flags

AN: okay, so probably one more chapter after this, and then either an epilogue or a sequel. Also, I'm not going to do the whole House hallucinating and having to check into a mental hospital thing because 1. it would disrupt their lives too much and 2. Greg has been working on his problems a lot more here than he did on the show.

"I've done the damage, the damage is done  
I pray to God that I'm the damaged one.  
And all these grown-up complications that you don't understand  
I hope you can, someday  
I hope you can," Liz Phair

We watched excitedly as Dave prepared to give his speech. He introduced himself, but only two of the three judges seemed to be paying full attention to his speech. I couldn't tell exactly what was happening, but—as usual—Greg was way ahead of me. I saw the brightness go out of his eyes, his smile fade, and while I couldn't see it, I imagined his stomach dropping. He nudged me.

"That guy with the red tie recognized his name or rather, he recognized _my _name. What if the guy was a patient, or whoever and I did…something to him?" His hand (which had been at his side) reached for mine and started squeezing.

"You can go over there and apologize, pray that he's one of the paitents you've acted—rudely—towards would settle for an apology." He nodded, but we both knew it wasn't that simple. Greg had difficulty dealing with people, and his apologies didn't always sound like they were supposed to. He squirmed a little, but took a step closer to them all the same. "I know you're scared, but it's okay. This guy's probably a parent too. Don't worry. Everything is gonna be okay." Nothing. "Maybe you weren't his doctor. He could be an old friend."

"I don't have any of those. You'rethe only friend I've ever had. In college there were a few people I used to hang out with, but I don't recognize that guy so he's probably not one of them."

"Well, you can either stand here, freaking out, hoping that the guy wasn't a patient, or if he was, that he's not gonna hold a grudge, _or_ you can go over there, and do something." Greg's hand pulled on his chin. "I'm here. It's okay."

"Yeah, probably, but I don't care about myself. _He _might not be okay. It's got the best damn project in this place, and he might lose because of something _I _did! Probably something I did before he was even born.'

"You do realize that this is the exact same conversation we have every time anything new happens in his life, every time you think you've done something horrendously abusive, right? Dave is about to hit another birthday—" He cut me off, as I expected he would.

"Oh shut up! I know what I hafta do, just hafta actually do it," he explained, rubbing his arm. Translation: I'm really scared, but don't have a choice. He took a deep breath, sighed, and started walking towards the guy. "Hang on a second, Little Man," he told David. "Excuse me," he said to the judge. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help noticing that you seem to recognize his name, my name. Yes, I am Dr. House—and for whatever I did to you, I' really, really sorry, but this is my kid here, and what I did has nothing to do with him. Maybe you wanna take a swing at me, maybe more, but punishing him…that's not gonna do anything 'sept hurt _him," _Greg said, in a quiet, almost terrified, little rant, all before the other guy had a chance to stop him.

"Greg, it's me—Pete Marsh…Petey—you don't remember me, do you?" He looked away from Marsh, embarrassed. "We took bio-chem together. I tried to cheat off you on the mid term, but you noticed. An hour after I finished, you came walking out of the classroom." House was smiling. "Now you remember—hang on," he told the other judges. "He purposely put down a wrong answer for every single question. I didn't look hard enough to notice." They both chuckled. "Now there's a lesson for you," he said to David, chuckling. "I begged you to tutor me."

"He offered to pay in hydroponic weed," House finished. More laughter. "That was good stuff, totally worth it. Hell, I think I came out on top of that deal. Knew the material a hundred times better because I had to explain it to you a hundred times."

"Oh, please," Petey taunted, pushing Greg's shoulder. "You could have aced the final exam by the end of the first week of class. You read the whole text book in, like, three days, right?"

"Nine days. I might of _passed _it then. Could of gotten a B by midterms. Then we started working together, and I really got to now the stuff." The guy gave him a look like he was saying, _eh._

"So, this is your kid, huh?" He nodded. Pete smiled. "He goes to a good school, must take after his old man." Greg shrugged, as if embarrassed. "Well, we better get moving; I've got another thousand volcanoes to look at."

House nodded, and took a few steps backwards, still totally on edge. I watched him watching the kid's presentation, wishing that there was more I could do. By this point, his heart rate had probably began to slow down, and he had started breathing again, but he was far from comfortable, and most likely still felt like he was going to pass out. When I offered him my hand, he didn't take it, but stood there, attempting to self-soothe. And failing miserably.

"Its okay, Greg, just like it always is. The kid is fine. You are a good father. Dave is always going to be fine. That's what matters." His eyes rolled. "It sucks; I know that—okay I don't know. That's you're point, isn't it? I have no idea how this feels, how you feel? I know what could have happened. I now how scared you must be, but nothing happened."

"But it could have been really bad! I've done a lot of terrible things in my life, and it hasn't been an issue for us because…because he didn't know, it had nothing to do with him, but this could happen again. It could happen a lot. I make everybody mad. Even you don't like me sometimes, remember?" I sighed, forcing his hand into mine. "What if he decides to go to Hopkins? What if some of my old teachers are still there? Or worse, my classmates, or—other people who knew me and hate me and wanna do something to him to get back at me or—who knows what? Maybe they might do something to _him_ to get back at me!"

"What, like kidnap and torture the no longer little guy," I mocked, gently brushing a bit of his hair back. He growled, making the _it's me _face. "Listen up; because I'm only gonna say this a hundred thousand more times, okay?" He didn't even look at me. "Really, not even a smile? Okay, well, anyway…David is gonna be _fine. _Capital F-I-N-E—fine! Alright?"

"If I could actually believe that,I wouldn't need to hear you say it another hundred thousand times," he confessed. Shortly after this, David finished his presentation, and Marsh turned, giving Greg two thumbs up, and a big smile. Then, he came over, handed him a business card, and said, "Call me."

"See," I told House, gently. "Everything is alright. I told you it was going to be okay, and it was." Unfortunately this caused him to do the exact opposite what I was hoping he would do.

"Yeah, but when you said it the first time, you were just lying to try and make me feel better, which—as we discussed last month—doesn't actually work for me," he said, partially angry, partially distracted. "Now shut up, some guy just walked up to my child, and I have to run over and stop him from kidnapping him. Technically, you hafta run there, but I'll be right behind you." He wasn't any more concerned than usual, but Stranger Danger gave the guy an excuse to not talk to me. This was a sore subject, and I was starting to think he might not be able to see himself as a good father until Dave was the youngest, Nobel Prize receiving, brilliant, happily married doctor, who lived up to every bit of potential that they both had, but which Greg had never been able to do much of anything with.

In fact, I could picture a forty five-year-old David arguing with his father, insisting that Greg had not only been a wonderful dad, but that nothing he ever did could (by any definition of the word) be considered abusive. A second or two later, Stranger Danger walked away, and House Junior raced to our side, hugged his dad, and asked if we had seen his presentation. "You did great; who were you just talking to," he asked, without pausing between the two statements.

"Oh. His daughter has a project on phobias," the kid explained. "He's a dentist and had a few questions about my project." The older one nodded, hugging back. "Are you okay, Dad?"

"I think he's just a little uneasy being in such a big, crowded place," I lied, before he had a chance to repeat the comment about David getting kidnapped.

"Oh, well you don't hafta worry about _that _while we're _here._ I only talked to that guy because you and Wilson were ten feet away, and watching me. So, I knew that if he did try something, I could run or scream or both." Greg pondered this for three or four full minutes before he nodded, and patted the kid on the back. "I'm allowed to take some time off for lunch. We can go now. I bet you're sort of freaked out, 'cuz of that thing with the judge and you probably need to sit down some place, and listen to my presentation ten or twenty times, until you're so annoyed by it that you can't even think of anything else." Hose senior smiled weakly, and patted his son's shoulder again, then ticked him a little. "Come on, Dad," he called, dragging his father forward by the arm. We went to the cafeteria, picked up sandwiches and fries. The House boys told jokes, laughing a little, and discussed some possible projects for next year.

"So what happens if you win, or place in this competition," Greg asked, stealing the last French fry off of my plate. "Is it like in sports, you know regionals, nationals, whatever?" Dave shrugged. "Didn't they send home a pamphlet or—stop blowing bubbles or I'm taking the chocolate milk away. You're almost nine—something?" Another shrug. "Any chance _you _remember, Jimmy?"

"Nope, sorry. I guess we all messed up on this one," I confessed, with a little smile. We went back to the floor, Greg and I took turns standing beside Dave and his project. Obviously, I spent a little more time on my feet, but Greg was actually having a pretty good day, pain wise, and—with the assistance of a couple extra pills—was able to do most of his fair share. Naturally he complained non-stop, to me, but he knew that this was an important day (and was excited to be there) so he behaved himself. For the most part. House's son did not win the state science fair. Nor did he get one of the top five slots, which would allow him to go to the next level. He did, however, manage to snag sixth place, which earned him a mention in some magazine, with the other top ten place kids, a green ribbon, and a gift certificate to some toy store with a science theme. The kid who won was a high school senior who had built a small electronic device that somehow converted garbage to energy. I didn't understand it, but the House boys were fascinated.

That night, I made David's favorite dinner, and—since it was the weekend—let them stay up late, while the three of us played poker and pigged on candy bars and kettle corn. By the time we put the kid to bed, House had calmed down a little. David gave him his goodnight hug, and said, "I love you, Dad. And I never would of done this good without your help."

"Potentially not winning the state science fair because of me would be one thing. You'd get over that. But the idea of something I did causing you problems got me thinking. And I freaked out because it could potentially be really bad. I've done a lot of terrible thigns to a lot of innocent, and not so innocent, people over the years."

"Well, there's your problem, Greg," David said, teasingly. "Stop doing that and everything will be fine." They both smiled. "People make assumptions about everybody based on lots of stuff, especially about their parents. If you were famous for being smart but super nice, or smart but nieve, everyone I ever met would try and take advantage of me. Worst thing that _might _happen to me because you're my dad is that I'm gonna hafta work a little bit harder to prove myself. I'm still gonna do fine, eventually. And if I work for you, your reputation isn't gonna matter much, is it?"

"I guess I hadn't gotten that far in my imagined scenario," House confessed. David elbowed him, gently, as if saying 'see what did I tell ya?'"I just wanted your life to be easier than mine, especial since—I dunno, nevermind."

"You don't yell at, hit, or try to molest me. I'm the only person you're ever nice to. And I know that you're gonna give me everything I need for the rest of forever, and probably give me just about whatever I ask for. Plus, how many kids have dads who will ride rollercoasters with them all day, even though they get sick from it."

"I only got sick 'cuz I had like five pounds of nachos, popcorn, cotton candy, funnel cakes and stuff, and _then _went on the rides. But if you forgot, we should go back this summer and see who gets sick this time." He hadn't actually gotten over what had happened that day, or what might happen in the future, but was alright to discuss something else for a while. David shrugged, then thought this over for a minute or two.

"Well, my birthday is coming up next month. We should go to six flags!" I wasn't exactly thrilled about the trip, but I didn't hate the idea either. It would be fun to watch the House boys having a blast, each one trying to make the other puke, and there were games, food, as well as at least one or two mild rides that I would be able to enjoy.

"Okay," House senior said, smiling. "Sounds good to me. That's really all you wanna do for your birthday?" The kid shrugged and squeezed his own chin. "It's okay to ask for more. If you ask for the moon, might hafta settle for space camp, but…I'll always try." He shrugged again, but was showing several tells, hand on is chin—the way his dad did—a look of deep concentration on his face, lips pulled tight, like he had been sucking on a lemon. And yet, Greg didn't bust him. He didn't say, _come on, I know something is up, and I can probably even guess what that something is. _He did the right thing. He let the boy do what he needed to do.

"It's just that Mom always made a big deal out of my birthday, even though I didn't really care. Last year we took all the kids in my class to the movies and then out for pizza, but I wasn't really friends with any of them. Still don't have a _lot _of friends, except for you two. I don't really feel like doing anything with them. Going with you to Six Flags, or any other rollercoaster park, riding the rides, playing the games, eating ourselves sick…sounds like the best time ever. You don't even hafta get me a present. That can be it." Greg shrugged, his eyes shifting towards the floor. "It's alright, I mean I don't mind if you get me something too." I already knew about the present Greg had gotten, and didn't see a problem with David getting both.

"Dave, it is bedtime. We can talk about our expedition tomorrow morning, okay?" He nodded, hugged his father, checked the batteries on his walkie-talkie (even though he hardly ever needed it now that it had been nearly a year since his mother's death) and climbed under the covers. "You okay," I asked, later, as the two of us climbed into bed ourselves. He didn't respond. "David's alright. He could be raised by the meanest, most distant, evil bastard in all of the Universe, and still be fine."

"I'm barely "just fine!"And everything in my life, except him and sometimes you, sucks. I don't want _this _for him. I want him to do better. I want him to be better." He didn't want to talk about it, and even though I didn't want to force him, I was a little worried about something, and had to be sure.

"Better than you? What, like smarter? Nicer? Understanding and paitent when it comes to dealing with moronic strangers? Everything you want him to be, the stuff you want him to do, he already has, is, and does. He's a good kid, a happy, healthy, normal kid. You're doing great, and will continue to do great. I know you need to hear that a lot and I don't mind. I swear." Greg sighed, yawning. "Need to hear it again?" He nodded. I told him then and at least a dozen more times before he fell asleep that night, and almost every day after that for a while.

A week passed, and while he didn't completely seem to believe me, he doubted his parenting skills slightly less. He spent a lot of time with David, and we started to make plans for his birthday and the rest of the summer. The House boys got season passes to Six Flags, which came with free passes for friends—me—which was good, because I didn't like rollercoasters, and tickets were expensive for someone who wasn't actually doing anything. Not that money was an issue.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

As the kid's birthday came closer, he and Greg started to go trough the website, planning out their day, leaving room for line length, and other situations. First, they picked out every ride they absolutely _needed_ to go on, then the ones they really wanted, but could miss, if necessary. They also planned out snack and game breaks, and finally came up with a list of rides they'd like to go on twice or more if there was time. By the week before the kid's birthday, there was only one more thing to discuss, something Greg didn't seem all that comfortable talking. But, I finally dragged it out of him.

"This really doesn't matter. I don't know why I'm even considering it," Greg said, staring absently into his cereal bowl. As usual, I had no idea what he was talking about, and David did. "We don't hafta wait in the lines, no matter what, 'cuz of my leg, but…I can go further, faster, if I use a wheelchair to get around," he explained to me. My first thought, was _okay, where's the problem?_ He could walk maybe sixty feet—if he really pushed himself and absolutely had to/ didn't die from the pain—before collapsing in agony and exhaustion. The park was a couple of miles long, plus the standing around and waiting, and bracing himself in his seat every time the ride tumbled over the crest. It seemed simple enough to me. If he didn't use a chair to go from point A to point B, he'd need to be hospitalized before the end of the day. "I feel like such a sleaze ball doing that. And, like I said, I can do whatever we need, just by walking. I'm only slightly more comfortable in the chair."

"That's what you're worried about? _This _is a big deal for you," I asked, a little concerned, but mostly feeling like I should laugh at him. "Just use the chair. You'll be way more comfortable. Plus, you sort of need it unless we're only going on one ride."

"I can push myself pretty damn far, if I really hafta. I can do it, I know I can. And if I get the mixture of breaks and pain meds right…" I put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

"But you don't need to, you don't _hafta—_David can you go into the other room for a minute…I know, but Greg doesn't like to talk about this kind of stuff in front of you—I know you think you're going to corrupt him because you think you don't need the chair. But you can't do this to yourself. It's gonna hurt so much that you're not gonna be able to think about anything besides the pain. You won't be having fun, and he's gonna know that you aren't having fun. That's gonna make him nervous, worried about you, and he will beg to leave early, and won't enjoy his birthday, because you'll be in agony, and way more miserable than usual. I'll explain to him why you need the chair, just for this. He'll understand. You did it before, right? This way, you can have fun and he can have fun, and you're both gonna—well…I think you get the picture, right?"

House nodded, still slightly nervous. "Now, is this alright with you, Greg?" He shrugged, but both of us knew that his mind was made up, and I waited for him to what he had to do. He needed to rant a little, insult me, and then—finally—he'd be able to tell me what was happening. Greg did exactly what I expected him to do, but eventually, he did break down and agree to use the chair, just at the theme park. He even admitted that I was _right. _

"I wouldn't be able to walk round no matter how many breaks I took, or how many pills I popped. I know he understood that it's not okay to pretend to be sick—or in my case sicker than you actually are—to get stuff to make people be nice to you, or to get stuff. And I think he understands why I'm doing this, why I hafta do this. That wasn't why I resisted," he said, then sighed. I hugged him, kissed his cheek, and waited for him to say something. "My fake dad never wanted to do anything with me, at least, nothing _I _wanted to do and when I—this is so stupid, what the Hell is wrong with me?"

"Where do you want me to start?" When he didn't smile instantly, I was terrified he'd taken me seriously. "I—House!" I tried to keep a straight face, but each time I looked up, he was laughing a littlie which made me laugh, which made him laugh harder, which made me laugh harder, and made me feel the need to look away. "I thought we agreed you were gonna stop making me think I'd done something horrible to you," I lectured, after our third failed attempt to say what I'd intended to say. "You are nothing like your fake father_. _Okay, you can't do everything a father is supposed to or can do, but you _are_ creative, and loving, and attentive, and supportive—should I keep going, or was that enough adjectives?" Greg glared at me for a minute, and then seemed to realize that I meant to go on. "I dare you to find a happier kid than your son. So, you can't play football with him, big deal! He's turning nine, in a year, maybe two, he's not even gonna want to do those things with you anymore. Not being able to run around with him is not the same as refusing to run around him. And you do so much other stuff you do with him? Chess, poker, the diagnostic game, science stuff, reading, building models, doing puzzles, comic books, you play with his action figures together. In the one year that you've know each other, you have done more with him and more for him than both of my parents did with in my whole childhood, well with just me and them, and my folks were great. I know in your mind, all the things you do that maybe you shouldn't, and the stuff you don't do that some parents would, is truly horrible but even the best moms and dads in the world make mistakes. Nobody is perfect, how can you expect to be. For the 11,596,723rd time, you are a great father and there is nobody in the world who will ever be able to take care of him better or love him more than you."

"How long before you get tired of telling me that, give up, and run away, or whatever," he asked, without even seeming to register the rest of what I'd told him.

"I will never give up. I will never get so tired of saying nice things that I'll leave, or stop telling you or—whatever. Never. And I know you don't believe me right now, but you will someday. It is going to work out. Everything will work out. It's gonna be just fine. I promise, and I'll do whatever it takes to help you understand."

"Yeah, whatever," House responded, sort of rolling his eyes, but not really. "Okay, Dave, we're done in here," he called. "You know why we did that right? Jimmy asked you to go into the other room, because he knew I was uncomfortable discussing this in front of you. I still have a little trouble with some of this parenting cra—stuff. But I'm doing a lot better than I was this time last year."

"I think having Wilson around helps a lot. Plus, it's not like you can drive to New York and give me back to my mom." Greg smiled a little, and gave the boy a gentle shove. "Can we play Smash Brothers," he asked, gently, and (naturally) his father agreed. I watched the House boys run to the den, each one grabbing a controller off the top of the TV set, and then plopping down on the sofa together, both of them smiling, relaxed, and happy. Happy, and House, two words I never thought would go together and—now—yet they did. He was.


	13. Birthday Party

AN: Sorry for the mix-up. THIS is the right chapter. There's a lot going on in this chapter, I wanted to wrap up the loose ends. There is one more chapter after this but it takes place several years in the future. I am also working on a sequel that takes place when David is in medical school and will continue through his internship and residency.

We went on our little trip the day before David's actual birthday. We had to get up at 5:30 so we could drive to the park and still have time to go on rides. The House Boys had a blast at Great America, racing up and down the ride entrance ramps, chasing each other all over (playing a version of tag), cracking jokes, laughing, and eating tons of junk food. They went on every "thrill" ride in the park at least once, and returned for a second (and occasionally third) ride on more than half of them. They also rode on this giant slingshot ride that threw them way up in the air, and then yo-yoed about, and agreed to go on the teacup ride with me, because I'm a total wuss and since I was getting tired of standing around and watching colorful, unrecognizable blurs zoom past me. The Three of us ate a small breakfast at home and snacked on funnel cakes (everybody shared one), ice cream (we each had our own), popcorn (mostly for me but they both grabbed a handful or two or ten in House's case), cotton candy (Dave and Greg only), and soda throughout the day. By the time my boys were ready to leave, it was nearly 7:00 pm. The two of them fell asleep in the car as we were driving home, and as I looked over, I started thinking about was how much I loved them, and how happy I was in this life.

Greg awoke suddenly, with a start. I said, "It looked like you were having a bad really bad dream." He shrugged. "Would you like to tell me about it?"

"Just the typical shit. Fine, it was _him_. Don't look at me like that! Fine, we were in this really, really big bath tub, and he had this huge…his—he wasn't all that big for real, but—sometimes in dreams my mind exaggerates. Or something." I nodded, and reached over, squeezing his fingers. He yanked his arm away.

"Sorry," I said, gently. House always tried to make act like he didn't care about the nightmares. "I don't think they're ever gonna go away completely, but the more we talk about stuff, the more comfortable you'll be with yourself and eventually, even these dreams won't bother you as much." He chuckled a little, twisted his head behind his shoulder to check on the kid, and turned back around. "He still out?" Another nod. "Even as an adult who's going to have had the benefit of psychiatric help, Dave's gonna have his own bad dreams from time to time. But you—well, with all the terrible things that your dad did, all the time that went by where you couldn't talk about or deal with it; things are harder for you. But we will be able to figure this out. Not that I expect you to believe me right now." He looked over his shoulder again. "We've been up since 5:00. I'm surprised one of you didn't pass out over a picnic table.

"Sugary food and the caffeine from the buckets of soda we inhaled took care of that." We both smiled. Then, he appeared to be fighting the urge to look over his shoulder at the kid again.

"Is something wrong?" House shook his head. "Want me to pull over so you can move back there?" Another no. "He's happy. Not normal. He'll probably never be normal but that's not such a bad thing. He could have been raised by the most well adjusted, brilliant, sensitive—I've said this before, haven't I? Anyway, he could have had a perfect mother and father and loads of perfect friends, and teachers; everything could have gone right for him, and he still wouldn't be normal."

"I don't feel weird about him not being Joe Sixpack. I don't even mind that I'm one of the main causes of his becoming a not normal person. Problem is, he might—it's stupid. You're right. I shouldn't even think about this, let alone let it worry me." He checked on the boy again.

"That's not what I said." I was pretty stern but it needed to be done. Greg sighed more, and looked at my hand, running his thumb over my knuckles. I thought about this some more, wondering what Greg was thinking about, what was really bothering him. "You _really _don't wanna tell me, do you?" He nodded. "If you ever do," I started to say.

"I know," he cut me off. "I can tell you anything. You won't judge me, blah blah, blah." I let out a small sigh. I knew that as much as he wanted to trust me, as much as he wanted to be together, House was still terrified I'd make everything worse—not to mention his concerns over the effects a problem with our relationship would have on his son—so, he sometimes sabotaged himself. Sometimes he lied to me, for various reasons. Occasionally he even got confused enough that he thought hiding things from me, closing himself off, was not only normal but also healthy. The right thing to do. He was already shutting himself down, building the wall back up. Hence the lying and defensive and rude comments.

"You don't _have _to talk to me, you know." As I had hoped, this was an attention getter. His eyebrows raised slightly, and he turned his head away from the window. "I spend so much time telling you how I'll listen to whatever you have to say, that it's okay to talk. You can open up to me. I say—alright, you get it, I'll stop giving examples—but I never say "you don't need to fill every hour of every day with deep analysis." I never said that too much talking is just as bad as none at all."

"Knew that one too," he pouted. _Actually, I don't think you do, _I thought. _I push you so much, it's a wonder you don't think I want you to tell me every thought that pops into your head. I'd be surprised if you thought you can NOT respond when I start asking you questions._

"When you don't feel like talking, you can—you hafta say so. But, if you keep doing that—even when it's okay to stop—I'm gonna figure that out and then you're gonna be in big trouble," I teased, reaching over to try and tickle him.

"Don't crash the car," he ordered half seriously, and then looked over his shoulder again. "This is a trick, right? You say, 'you don't have to tell me anything. No pressure, whatever,' and I spill my guys because I'm so grateful to you for—I dunno how to explain it, but I know you're trying to confuse me. Has to be."

"You already don't trust me. Don't deny it; I understand that it isn't because of anything I did. It's just how you are. For now. Why would I risk making that worse? If I start lying to you, I become one of them. We'd break up, and it would be my fault and only mine."

"You are such a fag," he taunted but was actually relieved to know I didn't want to confuse or hurt him. He trusted me a little more than before. Greg felt comfortable enough to keep his mouth pretty much shut until we got home. Back at the apartment, we shared a tiny 'dinner' and David read by himself for about an hour before admitting to being too tired to keep his open.

We put the kid—our kid—to bed, and went back into the den, our 'bedroom.' "I'm worried about him," he told me. "Linda died a little after his birthday last year. Wouldn't matter when it happened. She was his mom and she died. Loss of a parent is devastating, and I know this isn't a major milestone, but he's still gonna miss her more on holidays and birthdays and stuff. Been thinking about this for a while, trying to figure out what to do, but I'm stuck." It hit me suddenly, and I felt stupid for not figuring it out sooner.

"You don't want him to hate his birthday. You want him to be able to think back on the day and have memories other than the bad things that happened on or around it, for him to be able to focus on anything other than the pain. You don't want this to be another way the two of you are alike." Greg grunted, twisting away from me. "If you don't want me to know this stuff, don't tell me anything. Ever. On the other hand, if you want my help, I need to know." He smiled weakly, and I allowed myself to do the same, once I realized that he wasn't as unhappy with my lucky guess than he was pretending to be. "You're so sure he's gonna be miserable that you can't believe that the opposite is true."

"You don't know that! He thinks like me—most of the time. Means he probably always will. Maybe he can't talk to me, or you, or his shrink about some of his stuff. Maybe he's holding it inside and then—one day—he could explode." House was getting more and more agitated with each passing second. The poor guy simply couldn't self-soothe. He didn't realize that David might be different. I was a little angry at him for not listening to David and me as we continued to explain that the kid was alright. At the same time I knew just how difficult emotional situations were for him. I knew he was even more afraid I'd find out about his concerns for the kid's emotional wellbeing.

"David is not like you, not in that way. You, and me, and your mom, and even his shrink help him. David is being raised in a home where he's encouraged to ask for help. Emotional hang ups are not genetic, phobias and neuroses are not genetic. He will need to be careful when it comes to alcohol, and—if he God forbid ever gets sick—certain medications, and drugs but a lot of people have family histories of drug and alcohol abuse; their lives are not any less productive than people who don't. They still have fun. It's not a big deal. And more importantly, as long as you don't treat him the same way your 'father' treated you, it's impossible or you to make his emotional problems worse."

Greg bit down on his lower lip, pulling away from me slightly. I moved closer to him, and wrapped my arms around his body. "If anything, he sees how difficult it is for you and that will make him work even harder on his own issues." He looked me in the eyes, as if trying to read my mind. I let him lay still and think for the next twenty minutes. I would have given him more time, but David had a nightmare—his first in quite a while—and was so freaked out by it that he needed to see his father, needed a hug, and even asked Greg to lay down with and hold him. House senior did all those things and more. He got the kid talking about his dream (it had been another horrifically violently one, in which Greg was murdered) helped him to relax, promising to do everything in his power "and then some" to make sure he stuck around for as long as Dave needed him.

"And then some," he teased, giggling. At this point, the kid tried to do something extremely manipulative. I believed that this was a sign of just ow normal and healthy he was, but Greg—of course—disagreed.

"Dad, since I'm awake anyway, do you think that maybe I can open some of my birthday presents early? Please? It might make me feel better and I think I could really use that after a bad dream like the one I had tonight." Greg smiled, and patted him on the back. The kid—sensing that this was a losing battle—made the pouty face.

"Yea—no," he said managing to sound both irreverent, and sweet at the same time. Dave scrunched up his nose but then leaned back against the pillow, and smiled.

"It was worth a try," the kid explained. House found this hilarious, but when I asked him about it latter, he seemed to think that David's ability to manipulate adults was proof that he was being abused ('and by me no less,' he'd added). "Kid's who are happy, and safe shouldn't—they don't try and manipulate people," he explained, later, once the kid was asleep again.

"Okay, look, I can't believe we're having the same argument twice in one day. I've told you about my Godson, right? Perfectly average, perfectly healthy kid. If he didn't get exactly what he wanted—until he was seven or eight. It still happens sometimes but a lot less—_huge_ temper tantrums, 'you don't love me,' 'I wish I had another mommy,' 'I hate you!' And that was just over not getting to go play X-box in the middle of a big family dinner. If he had a real reason to be scared like David, that would be one thing, but this crap happened almost everyday, and because he wanted an extra bowl of ice cream." Greg sighed, one hand on his chin, the other rubbing his leg.

He finally admitted that the pain got worse when he was upset. To me. And I wasn't allowed to tell anyone. "You learned how to manipulate people and have it work when you were really little, right? Except for…well, your dad probably never bought it but anyone else would do whatever you wanted, right?" He nodded, quickly. "Dave can't do that. Just now, in his room, he sounded like a totally normal little kid. _I _see that in him all the time but I know you have a hard time with this and probably always will. But he_ is _alright. You're doing a great job."

"As a—I'm…don't be weird, Jimmy," he complained still a little nervous. The guy let me take his hand in mine though, for a little while. Then, he started to rub up against me. "Wanna do—mm that feels nice. Do it again," I pleaded as House's hand slipped inside my underwear, and he started rolling his thumb over my dickhead. Without looking, his hand maneuvered expertly, finding all the 'sweet spots' as he called them and knowing exactly what to do to or for each of them, how to rub, squeeze, twist, and tug, with just the right what amount of force was right, everything. Being touched by him was pure pleasure. He was perfect. It was perfect. After he let me do for him what he had done for me, (as close as I could get anyway) the two of us curled up beside each other in bed and fell asleep.

XXX

Even though we had gotten up early the day before, and slept poorly, Dave awoke early, and shook his dad and I out of our separate sleep states sometime around 7:30.

"I know it's early but I'm really excited. It's my birthday. My _real _birthday! Can I open my presents now?" _See, _I thought, but decided not to tell House,_ he couldn't be any more like normal a nine-year-old_. Greg let out a long yawn. I smiled.

"David Gregory House, it is _way _too early. Go back to bed. Or something. Besides my mom is flying in…right about now actually. She'll be _here _by noon. You can wait 'til then," he explained, even though he knew that David knew all this. Then, he crawled back under the covers, rolling onto his side, and—I assumed—closing his eyes, trying to get to sleep again. "You can play videogames for an _hour_. Have some cereal or something too, if you want," he added, tiredly. I kissed Greg's neck, pushing back a little so I could get of bed and go with the kid in case he needed something.

David smiled and he ran off towards the kitchen. "He's fine." The older boy groped for me, half consciously. "I'm not. Want you here." He needed me to stay, but hadn't reached the stage where he was able to admit it. I scooted back to his side, wrapping my leg over his left hip.

"You know something wired," I asked, my lips pressed right up against his ear. He squirmed a little, rubbing up against me. "Besides this situation." My hand, which was on his cheek, felt his mouth curve into a smile. "I can just imagine you racing in and begging me to let you open your birthday presents…if you weren't like this. And if you didn't hate your birthday, of course," I added, quickly. He laughed for half a second. "You ready to tell me about it," I asked. At the same time I pulled back just enough to allow him to feel safe, to make sure he wasn't uncomfortable or scared while he talked about being abused. "_He_ did really terrible things to you on your birthday, didn't he?"

"Don't guess, just wastes time. You say the wrong thing, I have to say no and explain, then you have questions about whatever and I have to answer 'em…and then you guess again, and we have to start all over." _I waste time?_ "I know you think you're helping but you aren't." I nodded, rubbing his back some more. I wanted to say something reassuring but knew he needed silence. He needed to collect his thoughts, figure out everything he was going to say, and exactly how he would say it. "He did really terrible things to me every day.

"But I am right, sort of. Aren't I? It does have something to do with your fake dad." He didn't say anything, didn't nod, didn't even turn around to look at me. So I waited, and he just lay there.

A few minutes went by; Dave came out of the kitchen, carrying a bowl of Froot Loops in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. He carried them back to his room. Greg rolled over so he was facing me.

"You were sort of right. It was—it has to do him. It isn't so much that I hate my birthday—I…he always said, "it's just a birthday, not even a milestone. You're not 18, or 25, or 50.' So, why give the bratty little smartass a party with pizza and cake and ice cream when he hasn't done anything to earn it. 'If you grow up to be famous and the whole world takes the day off of work to celebrate your birthday, then you can have a party.' That got beat into me at a pretty early age. I'm not complaining. It could have been a lot worse. I didn't—mine wasn't that…so anyway, that's why I hate birthday parties and stuff."

_Oh Greg, _I thought, but didn't need to tell him. I'm almost positive it was written all over my face. _That's not the whole story though. _"And the whole thing where he always figured out a way to always throw out my presents, assuming I was good enough for him to let my mom even buy me any. So, with all those years of—by the time I was ten, knew not to get my hopes up. And when I grew up nobody so much as _tried _to do stuff about it. Until Cameron. Even you didn't do anything on my birthday, for years. Can't really blame you though. Got me a cake on the first birthday I had after we met and I threw it out the window of my old apartment. The five-story-walk up, remember?"

"You totally nailed that blonde with the stubby legs," I reminded him, impersonating the terrified and confused woman with cake all over her face, hair, and clothes. He laughed. "Now there's a talent you jut can't teach." He smiled, and surrendered himself in my open arms. "I don't mind your difficulties. I'd like to think I've started to figure out most of this stuff." He nodded again. "So, if David, your mom, and I wanted to throw you a little party, or just have some cake, ice cream, and maybe even a couple gifts—would you be okay with that?" At first I was concerned; I thought he was still at the point where he needed to think it over. Then, I realized that he already knew how _he _felt about it but was trying to decide whether or not he wanted me to know this. "Just so you know, we aren't planning anything. Although, the kid's probably writing an Opera."

"He knows I hate that shitty music. Not even _Tommy_." I felt like a moron but I just stared at him. "God, I can't believe you're such a fucking idiot. It's a rock opera. The Who. It was massively popular! Anyway, David knows more about this stuff than you. Knows more than you do about just about everything in the world, actually."

"I know a little bit more about medicine than him," I defended.

"Only because you're board certified!" House sniggered. A few minutes passed. "Keep it small, okay? I'm not ready to have everyone in the hospital over to my apartment, our apartment. Too big, too loud, too…too many people. I don't like _people. _Don't mind you, don't mind my mom, and I love that kid, but that's pretty much it." I tried rubbing against him a little then, but Greg pushed me away, mumbling something about not wanting the kid to hear us do it.

"Well, if you want him to grow up to be normal, then you can't pretend like we never have sex. _I_ walked in on my parents once…actually twice," I explained. I expected him to call me a pervert, blame me for the second time.

"And look how you turned out," he mocked, climbing out of bed and limping down the hall. "Besides, it's a million degrees in here. Think I wanna cool off a little, not get all hot and bothered."

"You are going to take a _cold _shower," I giggled. He shrugged. "You know, I'm a little warm too, mind if I come with?"

"Sure," he offered. "Just don't expect anything from me. Cold water tends to…well, you know; you were just making fun of me for it." I gave him a gentle shove. Greg pretended to trip and fall, landed with extreme caution, then looked up at me pitifully. "Jimmy," he fake sobbed. "I fell."

"No you dropped to the floor. If you want a hand getting up," I started to explain, holding my arm out for him. House yanked it hard, pulling me down on top of him. I should have seen it coming but didn't, so _I _landed less well. "I'm fine; thanks for asking." He laughed a little, climbing on top of me. "I thought we weren't going to do anything out of not wanting David to see or hear us."

"You ever play chicken when you were a kid? Everyone does something reckless, and whoever gets the closest to the dangerous situation, whoever lasts the longest amount of time, is the winner. In this case, whoever can go the longest without having to rip his pants off wins."

"I think I have a bit more restraint than you," I said, touching the side of his face. He smirked. I knew the two of us could go back and forth for hours listing out of control things the other had had done but I didn't have that kind of time or energy. I knew he'd figure out a way to "sabotage" me fast; so I decide to speed things up a bit. I raised my head, pressing my mouth against his and the two of us started to make out.

Unfortunately, he seemed to have been expecting this, because Greg slipped his hand inside my pajama bottoms and wrapped it around my throbbing manhood, sliding his fingers up and down the shaft roughly but not in a way which caused me any pain.

"Okay," I squeaked after less than a minute. "You win." He smiled so huge I though the might need to change _his_ pants. "So, can we hop in the shower and finish what you started or not," I asked running my hand through his hair. He pushed me away, stood up and walked to the shower without saying a word. "Greg," I called as he turned the faucet on. He turned around, looked at me, and grinned again.

"Aren't you going to join me or what, _James_?" I laughed, jumped up and raced to his side, even though it wasn't that far. "You know it's actually a little easier for me if I sit in the tub. That okay for you?" I pulled off my shirt, and tried to imagine just how this would work physically. "I am a little nervous about it though," he admitted, adjusting the temperature, and putting the stopper in the drain.

"Why," I asked, somewhat stupidly, mostly due to my situation, but I figured it was better to admit that I didn't know than guess and risk making him more uncomfortable or worse. "Oh wait—didn't your…didn't he start to—didn't he make you take baths with him?" He nodded, almost as if I was the one who'd made him think about being molested. "I'll wait in the hall. Just be quick, I need a shower too, when you're done." He looked at the door, squeezing my hand tightly so I couldn't get away. "You want me to…what exactly are you asking me to do?"

"I'm not ready to duplicate what he did to me, you know replace the bad memory of him touching me with a good one of us…together, but—um. If we finish before we get in the water, then might be okay sitting in front and letting you wash me or something."

"As long as I don't start anything?" He clearly didn't want to but Greg finally did admit to this. "No problem. I _love _you. A lot_._" Greg smiled a little, but flinched when I reached over to kiss him."Hey, are you only agreeing to this because you think you don't have a choice? Okay, that's it. You go first."

"I don't know what just happened to me," he began to explain, hands nervously fumbling near the bottom of his shirt. I knew what was happening and had a feeling he had just lied to cover up for the fact that he really did know. "I guess I'm just not as comfortable with what _he _did to me as I'd like to think."

"It's amazing that you can form any sort of relationship at all, but reproducing the sexual assaults, well…I'm not sure you'll ever be able to do that. I'm not even sure it's a good idea." He gave me another little shove. "Do you need a couple extra Vicodin to get through your bath?" This time he pushed me all the way out of the room and slammed and locked the door. "That a yes on the pain pills or a no?" I gently reached for the knob, trying to get in, although I knew it was impossible. "Come and get me when you're done, because I stink and it would be nice if your mom didn't think we live in a hovel." I'll never know whether or not he heard that comment. He didn't respond. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged wrapped up in a fluffy towel. "Want me to lay with and help you calm down a little?" Greg shook his head, the towel sliding a little.

"I'm shivering 'cause it's cold. I'm not scared, least no more so than usual. Mom's gonna be here soon, and you've got a lot of cleaning up to do. Go shower Dirty Boy." I smiled, tussled his hair, went to Dave, told him to wait ten minutes, and then go hang out with his dad while I took a shower and got dressed. He said it was fine.

Once dressed, with my hair dried and everything else taken care of, I walked back to the den where the House boys were playing the diagnostics game. "How'd you get so good at this," Greg asked, tickling his son.

"I've been studying _Harrison's_," the kid explained. "A lot. Haven't memorized the whole thing yet, but I'll get there. Can we switch sides? You give me the symptoms and _I_ try to figure out what disease it is."

"Well I'm thinking of one, but there's no way you'll figure it out," House senior explained. "Still we could give it a try for a few turns if that's what you'd like. If you prefer, you can do this open book." The boy smiled.

"I don't _need_ to look at my book. Besides, that's cheating," David announced. House smiled proudly and took a quick look at a page, though he probably didn't need to. He had that look in his eyes, the one he got when he already knew exactly what the answer—or in this case the question —was.

"Okay, symptoms include: stomatitis, tremors, and ataxia what's the patient got?" Dave sat, head down, eyes closed, lips moving silently. He was thinking out loud quietly, mouthing symptoms to himself, trying to remember where and when he'd seen or heard them before. Greg did the exact same thing when he was thinking over something complicated.

"You weren't kidding when you said you were good. I don't think I've ever heard of this disease. Can you give me another clue?" House did. "I dunno."

"It's called Mad Hatter's Syndrome. It's a rare condition resulting from the mercury poisoning." Dave nodded excitedly. "I've never actually seen it except for on doctor shows and even then they did a weird presentation."

"So what is the strangest or coolest thing you ever saw as a doctor?" Greg shrugged. I smiled, thinking back on all the things he had done and seen. I couldn't wait to hear what my guy said. "If there's too many to pick from, you can give me your top five."

"Well, actually I'm not sure I could even narrow it to less than ten. I've gotten to see so many cool and different things in my twenty odd years as a doctor and I saw some good stuff in med school. Including a gender reassignment surgery and this was back when it was rare and you could only get it done at Hopkins. Every doctor—and student, and most of the nurses—in the entire hospital wanted to scrub in. I wasn't even on my surgical rotation but…I sort of came out to the patient, so she thought I was courageous. Plus, a couple people were stupid enough to make rude comments around the chick—before she was physically a chick and I told them off in front of her. She knew I was just sucking up but I was the only person who even bothered. She insisted that they let me be in the room."

"You can suck up to people," David asked. His dad shrugged, and continued to discuss previous cases, explaining them from the complaining symptoms and going through the entire progression of the disease. He let David guess what might be wrong, and allowed him to "order tests," even if they were unnecessary. He eventually did come up with the correct diagnosis on two of the six other cases Greg listed.

I set to work making lunch, a Ruben or House senior, grilled cheese with pickles for Junior—"you must of got that from your mom," his dad teased. "I hate pickles."

"You just never had the right kind," the kid replied—a tuna melt for Blythe and turkey for me. I also made fried potatoes, and set out fruit salad, coleslaw, and condiments. Then, David gave us all the homemade party hats to wear. Even Greg had a fantastic time. I think.

XXX

A few weeks later, it was a completely different story. We drove up to New York for the anniversary of Linda's death. The kid just stood in front of the headstone but didn't say anything for almost an hour even though he was the one who'd wanted to come. House stood back with me, fidgeting nervously.

"I know this is uncomfortable for you, but it's the right thing to do," I said. "He'll probably miss her forever but this stuff helps. Gives him a way to—" House shushed me. The boy was still working up the nerve to do something. "He's only going to the shrink twice a month now, and yeah he still has the occasional nightmare, but so would any eight-year-old who lost a parent, even one who wasn't as loving as his mom." House elbowed me. Hard. "And you are a wonderful father. That helps him a lot."

"Would you just shut up already? I might not completely believe you yet, but I'm actually holding up alright. Still think I should listen to what he says. Might be important." I smiled gently, draping an arm over his shoulder.

The kid walked back to us, shoulders hunched, head hung down. "You can still talk to her, and who knows, she might be able to hear and see you, watch over you and stuff." He took his son's hand and squeezed it. David hugged him, and when he pulled away, there were wet spots on Greg's shirt.

"But I thought you didn't believe in that stuff. You make fun of religious people all the time, call them idiots." We watched as House senior first rubbed his chin, and then closed his eyes in quiet contemplation.

"I don't believe in God because I've never seen any proof. I make fun of people who are absolute in their beliefs, the ones that take the Bible word for word. The ones who don't care that there isn't proof and ignore anything that proves they might be wrong. That's stupid. If I walk up to a guy on the street and say 'jump out of a plane into this field. I'll catch you,' there's no way they'd fall for it. But if it's in a leather-bound book in Elizabethan English…they have absolute faith. With you, or…I think it's good for someone your age to believe in something—especially after what you've been through. Besides, who am I to say that there 's absolutely, positively no chance of there being anything at all out there?" The more he spoke, the more uncomfortable he got, which wasn't unusual when it came to these situations. Dave knew this, so he didn't push his dad too hard for answers unless he really needed something.

Dave walked right up in front of the grave and said, "Hi Mom, I'm not sure if you can hear or see me from where you are—if you are anywhere at all—but I guess…I miss you. Dad and Wilson took me to Six Flags for my birthday. He gave me a guitar and is teaching me how to play it as my present, well that and a book about diagnostics and modern medicine but the book is pretty much written in layman's terms, so it's not as good as some of his favorite books. Anyway, back to the guitar, Dad says I'm a natural, but you probably already knew that. Even though I miss you a lot, I'm doing okay, mostly 'cause I have Dad. He and I are a lot alike and even if you were still around, I'd really like to have him as a part of my life. Dad is really good to me, he actually said that you might be watching over us because he knew it was what I needed to hear. He doesn't believe in that stuff and yet he said some really comforting stuff anyway, because he loves me. That's another reason I like that getting to spend time with him. Being with him helps. Of course, I wish I could be with both of you, but…well, I dunno. I think… This is so weird. I'm not used to talking to people who aren't there. I hope I'm doing an okay job. I love you, Mom. I guess that's pretty much it." He stood in place for a while longer, as though he were expecting something to happen.

"You did good, Kiddo," Greg explained, standing behind the boy and putting his hands on Dave's shoulders. "You okay to go now, or do you think we should stay here a while longer?" The three of us left the cemetery, House senior squeezing his son's hand.

XXX

The next few months were about what we'd gotten used to over the last few months. House allowed us to throw him the world's smallest birthday party. He had cake and David, Blythe, and I each gave him a present or two. Greg reacted to the idea of the party the way we all figured he would, not badly but not great either. The night before, we stayed up talking.

"That thing I said about when I was a kid; it's not the whole story. He always said I didn't need a party, because it wasn't a special birthday. I was only turning six, or seven, or whatever, but Mom could usually wear him down to some degree. He'd let her get a cake, and a couple toys and maybe a pair of shoes or some winter clothes or whatever. And he'd always say, "as long as that brat can keep his nose clean, I won't complain. It's okay with me." I knew it wasn't though, okay with him. And I knew it was only a matter of time, but…" He sighed, shaking his head. "I remember trying so hard, but eventually something would happen, and then he'd have an excuse. After that…"

"So it's not so much that you think they are stupid and therefore pointless, but you—what? Do you think that you don't deserve a birthday party?" I put my hand on his shoulder. The guy looked away slightly. He had been acting like he was starting to trust me but he got defensive quickly.

"I didn't say _that,_" House grumbled. "It's complicated," he added before I could ask what he had said. "I'm not used to this. Like every other good thing—and some of the not so good things—we've done. Gimme a decade and I'll be fine." I hugged him once more. He scratched his chin. I kissed his forehead yet again.

"How will you be tomorrow," I asked, a tad afraid of his response. He said nothing, just sat beside me, allowing me to put my arm around his waist but nothing more. "If it gets to be too much, you can tell me and Ill take you outside for a few minutes or something."

He didn't ask for a break at any point during the party. He was fairly relaxed most of the day, and even managed to smile for a while, a real one. Greg House smiled because he felt like it and wasn't faking because he thought he was supposed to look happy. Greg was right about needing time to adjust to things. He opened his presents, ate cake and pizza, and sat around talking with us.

With the exception of House feeling more relaxed because he was no longer worried about having to tell his mom about the abuse, our second Thanksgiving as a family wasn't too different from our first. And by Christmas he was almost happy, well happy for him. When his next birthday rolled around, the guy actually asked for specific presents, which was huge for him. In the twenty two years I'd known the guy he never once asked me for any presents (or much of anything besides the prescriptions, which didn't count) let alone something in particular. Between the help he was getting from me, and Blythe, and David, he seemed to have everything he needed and with each passing month or so, he got a little bit better.

Little by little he started to heal.

And perhaps, because of this—David got better as well. I had my two happy, healthy House boys, and I was also happy (completely happy) for the first time in my adult life. We were okay, every one of us.


End file.
